Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (27 page)

“You can’t imagine,” Joseph said. “This wasn’t like Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle baseball cards. This was a big time obsession. Of course, I never saw part of my collection, the stuff I got after Stella died and I lost my sight. But that stuff was like Sinatra Braille. I could hold and touch and admire.”

“What, besides records, do you have?”

“I had notebooks, a fedora, a tie, more framed photos than you could count, lots of autographs, napkins, newspaper articles, statues and statuettes.”

“Where did you get your Sinatra stuff?”

“Everywhere. There’s a whole industry surrounding famous musicians. Lots of people make a living buying and selling memorabilia. But Sinatra is tops. There are shows just for Sinatra items. I used to go to those shows. I scoured flea markets and garage sales, always keeping my eye out for Sinatra stuff. But my biggest haul was the stuff from the Cal Neva.”

“What was that?”

“They had a lot of stuff from the Sinatra years, and they stored some of it in a trailer. When I found out about it, I made the manager an offer, and he agreed to sell it, trailer and all. He just wanted it out of their hands. So I had a hitch installed on my car, they hooked it up, and I drove it home and parked it in my driveway. Of course, I went through it, and displayed some stuff in the house. But most of it I just left in the trailer.”

“When was this?”

“Lemme think. It was just a few years before Stella died. So maybe twenty-five years ago.”

“Did you ever know a woman named Scarlett Milo?”

Old Man Joseph made a huge grin. “Sure did. She was another huge Sinatra fan. Met her back during the heyday of the Cal Neva. She used to come there a lot. She was fresh out of college at Stanford. Living up here at the lake one summer. She had some kind of job nearby, I forget what. Real smart girl. But not all stuck up, you know, like some of those Stanford kids.”

“Do you think she knew Sinatra?”

Old Man Joseph shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.”

“Could she have dated him?”

Joseph guffawed. “Now that’s funny. Sinatra had an eye for women, that’s true. But he was spending time with the likes of Marilyn Monroe. I don’t think Scarlett Milo would have been very noticeable with that kind of distraction nearby.”

“Have you talked to Scarlett Milo recently?”

“Nope. Not for years, best I recall.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that she died recently.”

Joseph’s face seemed to lose its life. He frowned, deep and hard. “I’m sorry to hear it. She was one of the live ones. Big personality. Big opinions. I hate to ask, but did she get the cancer?”

“No. She was killed by a gunshot.”

Joseph leaned his elbows on the bar and put his face in his hands. “Another one of those gun accidents?”

“It was intentional. She was murdered.”

“Oh man, that’s even worse. I don’t know what to say. I don’t have words for that. Did they catch her killer?”

“Not yet. I was the last person to talk to her. Scarlett wrote me a cryptic note in the last few moments before she died. I’d like to ask you about it.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said, ‘Medicis BFF’”

“What’s that mean, Medicis?”

“They were a powerful family during the Italian Renaissance.”

He nodded. “And BFF is like best friend forever, right?”

“You’re sharp to know current lingo,” I said.

“I heard it on one of those interviews that Mandra downloaded for my pod. So what does it mean, the Medicis BFF?”

“We believe the Medicis BFF refers to the Blue Fire of Florence.”

“Ah. The diamond you asked about.”

“Right.”

Joseph was silent a moment. “It’s obviously valuable if Scarlett Milo was killed because of it.”

“Yeah.” I saw no reason to name an amount. “That’s why I’m asking about Sinatra memorabilia because I think the diamond may have once been in his possession, stuff which could have gotten into a collection such as yours. You said you went through all of the Sinatra stuff that was in the trailer?”

“Every single piece of paper, every photo, every letter. Every trophy, every award certificate, every knick knack, every bit of kitsch.”

“I assume there was nothing that suggested a diamond.”

“No. Nothing like that.” Old Man Joseph shook his head. “When I lost my sight and later sold my collection, I had a friend help me go through all of the new stuff I’d gotten. No diamond there unless it was tiny and hidden well. Anyway, I decided that the collecting phase of my life was over, so I sold it all.”

“Any chance you remember who bought it?”

“Sure. The radio guy. What was his name? He had the radio show about Sinatra back in the nineties. Vince something.”

“Any memory of how much you paid for the trailer full of Sinatra stuff?”

“Three thousand.”

“How much did Vince pay you for it?”

“Russo.”

“What?”

“I just remembered Vince’s last name. His show was called Vince Russo’s Sinatra Hour. Anyway, he paid me thirty-five thousand for my entire collection. The trailer stuff and all the other stuff, too. And he has lots of other stuff besides what he got from me.”

“Did Scarlett ever find out that you sold your collection to Vince Russo?”

Joseph paused, thinking. “I don’t know. Vince bought it several years ago. And it’s certainly been several years since Scarlett and I have spoken. But I can’t remember which came first or whether the subject of Vince ever came up with Scarlett and me.”

“I’m hoping you can give me a little background about Scarlett.”

“Like what?”

“Her friends, her acquaintances, any serious relationships.”

“I would say that in the last years when we were in occasional contact, she had no real friends. Certainly none that would connect to being murdered. Scarlett was kind of a loner. Real private. From what I knew, being alone fit her personality.”

“Why? Was she very shy?”

“Not to my experience. She just didn’t need much input from other people. She was self-contained but in a good way. I don’t think she was like one of those ornery, leave-me-alone types. More like independent. Like the stuff she liked to do was stuff you’d do alone.”

“I’d like to leave you my card,” I said, “in case you think of anything else. I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me.”

“Card’s no use unless it’s Braille.”

“Right. Sorry. How do you take phone numbers?”

“I remember them,” Joseph said.

“Wow, I couldn’t do that.”

“You go blind, you develop lots of tricks. You get real good at observation that doesn’t require vision.”

So I told Joseph my cell phone number. He asked me to repeat it.

“Okay, got it,” he said. “Can’t imagine I’ll think of anything else. But if I do, I’ll call.” He patted a buttoned cargo pocket on his shirt. “Got my phone right here.”

“Do you know where Vince Russo lives?”

“Sure. Up at the lake in the Tahoe Keys.”

“Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

Joseph grinned. “I’m happy to enlighten you with the world of Old Man Joseph. And you can call me, too, although I’ve learned that other people can’t remember phone numbers like me. So just dial the Biltmore and ask for me. Mandra and the other receptionists take my messages.”

“You’re a regular VIP,” I said.

“Two thousand a month in quarters gets me free answering service and lunch at the bar. Ain’t that right, Will?”

“Right, Old Man Joseph.”

“Let me pay for our lunch this time,” I said.

“Nope,” Joseph said. “That’s the whole point of the VIP thing. My guests dine free. Right, Will?”

“Right, Joseph.” Will’s smile couldn’t get any bigger.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m grateful for all of your information. Thanks, Old Man Joseph.” I clasped his shoulder, found his hand, and shook it.

“Welcome, Owen,” he said, smiling like the sun.

FORTY-THREE

I was glad to see no more notes on my cabin door. I’d just walked inside when my phone rang. It was Sergeant Santiago from Placer County.

“Just wanted you to know that we still haven’t gotten into Scarlett Milo’s email account,” he said. “We hired a consultant. Turns out that hacking email accounts is harder than it sounds. Most of the time, the hackers don’t have an easy way to crack your password. So they trick you into giving it to them. Like a phony web page where you think you’re logging onto your email. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah. Sorry to hear it. But thanks for the info.”

“But the main reason I called is something else,” he said. “Milo’s house was broken into.”

“Really? Any idea why?”

“It looks like a smash-and-trash. Kids who were looking for money or jewelry or prescription drugs they could turn into cash on the street.”

“Or maybe something more exotic,” I said. “Can’t remember if I brought you up to speed on the Blue Fire of Florence.”

“Sergeant Diamond Martinez did. So I wondered if Scarlett’s burglar was looking for the Blue Fire Diamond and thought that Scarlett Milo had it. No way to tell at this point.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

As soon as I hung up, I got a call from Commander Mallory.

“Thought you should know that Brann Crosen posted bail this afternoon.”

“What a day brightener,” I said. “But thanks for letting me know,” I said.

“You might want to call the football player,” he said.

“Right.” We hung up.

I called Adam.

“Hello?” he said after several rings.

“This is Owen McKenna calling. I want you to know that Brann Crosen posted bail today. He probably doesn’t know where you’re staying, but be very careful.”

“Who is this?”

“Owen McKenna. The detective. Remember me?”

“I don’t take calls from strangers,” Adam said. He hung up.

So I called Adam’s stepsister Felicite and got her voicemail. I explained that I’d just called Adam and he didn’t remember me and that I thought she’d want to know about it.

Later that evening, just after Spot and I had eaten, my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“I need help.” The voice was weak, raspy, old. Maybe desperate.

My heart rate quickened. “Is that you, Old Man Joseph? Try to speak louder if you can.”

“He beat me. Wanted to know where I put the diamond. I told him I didn’t have it. I’m broke up pretty bad. But I couldn’t exactly tell what I don’t know.”

My first impulse was to ask what the man looked like when I remembered that Joseph was blind.

“Where are you?” My breath was short.

“Don’t know. Some house. They set it on fire. I can smell the smoke.”

“Can you get out?”

“I’m tied to a rolling chair, so I figured it was a desk chair. I rolled around until I hit the desk. Then used the corner of the desk to get the tape off my mouth. I tried my teeth on the wrist tape, but I can’t get it. Too many layers. I got my pocket button unhooked with my mouth and sort of leaned forward against my arm and mushed my phone out onto the desk. My phone’s the old kind with buttons. I dialed it with my tongue.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?”

“Yeah.” He coughed, loudly. “They said I don’t have the GPS in my phone, so they don’t know where I am. So I hung up and called you.”

“Did you yell for help?”

“I can tell no one’s here.”

“Okay, Joseph. We’re going to do some fast detective work as I drive.” I opened the cabin door as I spoke, and Spot followed me as I sprinted outside into the dark. “Walk me through what happened.”

“I was walking home from the Biltmore. A vehicle pulled up. They grabbed me and put me in the back seat.”

I let Spot into the back of the Jeep, then started it and headed down the mountain. “It was a four-door car?” I asked.

“Yes. I heard the driver’s door close, then the back seat door.”

“Did you have to step up high to get in? Or did you lower down into the seat?”

“Up high.”

An SUV. “How many people?”

“Just two, I think. The driver and the guy who sat in back with me. The guy in back talked. The guy in front was quiet.”

“Any sense of where they drove?”

“Well, let me think. It felt like they turned toward the east after they grabbed me. Then it felt like we went down a long gradual hill. There weren’t a lot of tight curves, so I’d guess we went to Incline Village. I know we didn’t go up the Mt. Rose Highway. That would have been noticeable.”

“Then what? Think how it felt.”

“We went at pretty good speed for quite awhile.”

“So you were on the highway, not on neighborhood streets.”

“Right. After a time, we went up.”

“You think it was Spooner Summit?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, ’cause they made a hard left turn. Then my ears popped on the long downhill.”

I’d just gotten to the bottom of the private road, so I turned north toward Spooner Summit and floored the gas.

I said, “The road from Spooner comes down to the bottom of the valley in Carson City. Even if the light is green, you have to slow a lot. Then there is a turn to the left or to the right. Do you remember which?”

“Left.”

“So you were headed toward downtown Carson. What next?”

“Let me think. I’d say we went maybe four or five miles. We turned left for maybe a minute, right for a half minute, then left again. We drove for a bit, then turned into a driveway.”

“Sounds like you went west of Carson City’s main street. Toward the Governor’s mansion.” I was up to eighty as I raced up Spooner Summit. I had to slow for the curves.

Joseph said, “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“Then what?”

“They walked me into a house. Told me I’d die if I said anything or called out. I thought about trying to escape, but the guy holding me was very strong. I knew I had no chance.” Joseph coughed again, sharp, difficult hacks.

“Is smoke coming into the room?”

“Yeah,” Joseph said. “Better hurry.”

“They say anything about the house? A comment that would help me find it?”

“No. But it’s a big house. Maybe three stories. Probably an old Victorian. I could feel a cold draft coming out when they opened the door. Like there was a downdraft coming from an open window one or two floors up. Like the house was abandoned and had no heat on.”

“Did they take you up the stairs?”

“Yes. Four flights with landings and turns between. So I think I’m on the third floor.” He coughed again. His hacking was violent.

“If the smoke gets bad, try to tip the chair over so your face is near the floor. I’m on my way.”

I heard more coughing. It sounded as deadly as any coughing I’d ever heard. “Tip your chair over!” I shouted.

There was no response. Then weak hacking. Then silence.

I pushed the accelerator down as I got to the straight section of highway that crests Spooner Summit. I raced down the mountain, tires squealing on every curve. Then I came to a section where the highway was moist from snow flurries, but it didn’t feel frozen. I kept my speed as high as the turns would allow. Eighty on the straights, sixty-five on the sharp curves. If cops came after me, I could get them to help lead the way.

But there were no cops. I went down three thousand vertical feet, then raced north to downtown Carson City. I had no idea of where to turn left, so I picked one of the cross streets at random, rushing through the old neighborhood near the Governor’s Mansion.

I did as Joseph said, turning right where he might have meant, then left again.

There were some newer small homes mixed in with a few older Victorians. I looked for any house that looked abandoned and dark, any sign of smoke, any old Victorian three stories tall, any flickering light that could come from a fire.

There was nothing.

I came to the end of the street, turned the wheel, and hit the gas. My tires spun on wet asphalt, and the Jeep skidded around. I floored it and sped back to the previous intersection. The Jeep slid again, and I slid sideways in the road, trying to find some balance between traction and speed. At the next turn, I skidded around the corner and raced down the street, once again thinking that the road possibly matched Joseph’s description.

There were more houses, but none was tall, and none looked  on fire or abandoned.

I repeated the process on the following street. There was a tall Victorian at the end. It had lights on. People were standing on the front porch talking to some people at a car in the street. I raced on by.

I was going to pull a U-turn at the next intersection, when I sensed a glow of light just beyond the next rise in the street. I pushed the accelerator to the floor once again and flew over the rise, feeling the Jeep nearly go airborne.

In the distance was a tall house, a Victorian design. Behind the first floor windows was a wavering yellow glow. I sped up even further, then hit the brakes, skidded to a stop, and was out the car door as the Jeep went still.

I let Spot out of the back. He couldn’t help with a fire, but he could make a huge difference if there were still any bad guys around.

The windows on the lower floor of the house all had blinds of some kind. But they were translucent. The blinds glowed yellow in nearly every window.

The first floor of the house was engulfed in flames. I dialed 911.

When the dispatcher answered, I said, “Owen McKenna calling. I’m on the west side of Carson City, not far from the Governor’s Mansion. There’s a Victorian in flames.” I gave the street name. “I believe a man is trapped on the third floor. I’ll leave my phone on so you can get a GPS fix on the location.” I set the phone on top of a fence post, then ran up onto the front porch. I was going to kick down the door, but I paused at the last moment.

Joseph had spoken of a cold downdraft when they took him into the house, a draft suggesting that an upper window was open. If that was still the case, and if I broke open a downstairs door or window, I’d create another draft, this time going up instead of down, this time much more powerful. A house afire with openings top and bottom will turn into an inferno just like a blast furnace and incinerate the entire house in a couple of minutes.

It would be much better if I could get in above and not create a draft.

I ran around the house in the dark, looking for a fire escape.

There was none.

I looked for roof gables or trellises or any other structure that I could climb.

Nothing.

There was no garage or other structure. Just an old fence separating the yard from the neighbor’s yard.

I leaped over the fence and ran toward the neighbor’s house. It was dark. Same for the house beyond that. Then came a dark open area. I saw no indication of people.

A third neighbor had a shed. I pulled open the door and shined my penlight into the dark. There was a ladder.

I lifted it off the wall hooks, backed out of the shed, then ran with it. When I got to the fence, I dropped the ladder over onto the other side, and vaulted the fence. Picked up the ladder. Ran to the Victorian. Leaned it up against the wall. Pulled the rope that extended the ladder.

When the ladder was fully extended, I saw that it only reached to just above the second floor windows. I could break into the second floor, but I would still create a draft that would be nearly as perilous as a draft from the first floor.

I needed to get the ladder higher.

I sprinted back to the Jeep, jumped in, and started it. There was a short fence at the front of the house. I shifted into drive, and drove toward the house, aiming between the fence posts. The Jeep blasted through the fence. Spot ran alongside the Jeep as I steered around to where the ladder leaned, pulled up next to it so the Jeep was ten feet out from the house and close to the ladder.

Leaving the front door open, I stepped on the driver’s seat, then boosted myself up onto the roof. The metal dented in, but it held.

The ladder was within reach. I lifted it up and propped its feet on the Jeep’s roof. It wasn’t very stable, but it held as I climbed.

At the top of the ladder was a third-floor window just to the side. The window was shut and apparently latched. But this one I could break without creating a significant draft.

I used the back of my elbow to break the glass, then pulled the major shards out. Climbing through into the dark, I didn’t realize how smoky the air was. My lungs filled with caustic, searing smoke as I dropped to the floor.

“Joseph!” I yelled, coughing, hacking, choking as Joseph had on the phone many long minutes before.

There was no answer.

I crawled through the dark. Forward to a wall, swatting at the air with my hands as I crawled so I wouldn’t smash into the wall with my face. I turned about face, rushed back to the opposite wall, shifted sideways, went forward a second time, about faced again, went back again.