Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) (2 page)

He heard the sound of the car door opening on his Mercedes. Then came an angry shout.

“What’s this?! Dirt!” The voice seemed vaguely familiar. “Where’s the money?! You double-crossing…!”

The car door shut. Another door opened. Then shut. Fast, angry footsteps barely registered to Montrop.

The voice shouted from just behind him. “Where’s the money, old man?! Where!”

Montrop had got his palms on the drive and pushed himself up onto hands and knees. His neck was electric with pain. Slowly, he turned his head to the side. There was the vague shape of a person. Nothing recognizable.

“Where’s the money!!”

Montrop struggled to speak through his broken jaw. “I did just what you said. I put the money in the trash, and I carried the decoy bag into my car.”

“What?!”

Montrop sensed blurred movement. A big dark shape being picked up off the ground. His paddle board. Someone carrying it away.

Montrop tried to turn farther, tried to see. But his neck felt broken. Maybe if he stood up.

He got his hands on his knees and slowly rose, fighting dizziness.

Holding his arms out for balance, he rotated. The person holding the board was some distance away, maybe 10 yards. The person turned and ran toward Montrop. Montrop struggled to focus, but without his glasses it was hopeless. When the person with the board got up to speed, he lifted the board above his head and released it into the air.

As the board arced through the air toward his face, Montrop turned his head. The point of the board hit Montrop’s temple, ripping through flesh to his skull bone and knocking him backward. The blow deflected the bow of the board up into the air. The board’s stern hit Montrop on the chest, the sharp fin cutting through his shirt and slicing his skin the length of his sternum.

Montrop was slammed down. The back of his head hit the driveway, and he was still.

ONE

Blondie dropped the Frisbee at Street Casey’s feet.

“Your dog steals Spot’s Frisbee and then brings it to you,” I said. “Aren’t you worried she’s carrying the Yellow Lab Retriever work ethic a little too far?”

Street patted her thighs as Spot ran up to her. He looked down at the Frisbee where it lay at Street’s feet. He wagged. Looked at Street, then Blondie. Looked back at the Frisbee with such intensity that it seemed he expected to make it fly by the sheer force of his stare.

“Maybe His Largeness’s work ethic isn’t quite as robust as Blondie’s,” Street said as she bent a little and gave Spot a hug.

“No doubt about that,” I said. “You know that Great Danes have the lowest work ethic of all the working breeds.”

“Unless you consider the couch lounging category,” Street said.

“True. On that kind of work, he has no equal.” I walked up and gave each dog a pet. “It seems like Blondie’s doing well,” I said.

“Certainly much better. But she spends a lot of time staring at the front door as if she’s waiting for Adam Simms to walk in. I suppose I should expect a range of residual behaviors from a rescue dog. But yesterday at the lab, it was pronounced. When the UPS driver walked in, Blondie kept looking past him as if Adam was just beyond, maybe in the truck or something.”

“Anyway,” Street said, “overcoming Newton’s First Law is a lot easier for a fifty-pound Yellow Lab than a hundred-and-seventy-pound Great Dane,” Street said, ever the scientist. “Being small makes it easier to poach Frisbees.” She bent down and pet Blondie. “Doesn’t it, baby?” As Street spoke to Blondie, her voice sounded dull and gray, as if the normal color was gone. I couldn’t tell what it meant.

Blondie picked up the Frisbee, gave it a little chew, dropped it again at Street’s feet.

“How does the First Law thing work?” I asked.

“Newton explained how any object in motion continues to move in a straight line unless acted upon by a force. The more mass the moving object has, the more force needed to change its direction or velocity. Because Blondie is so much smaller, she has more horsepower per pound, so to speak, so she can turn faster than this big lunk.” As she said it, Street thumped her hands on the side of Spot’s chest, playing out a Reggae rhythm. Spot’s wagging frequency ratcheted up a notch.

“You’re saying that your dog has more horsepower than my dog,” I said.

“Per pound, yes. The smaller the animal, the stronger per pound it is. Smaller dogs can leap relatively farther than bigger dogs. A squirrel can leap dozens of times its length.”

“Next you’re going to tell me that those insects you study have the most horsepower of all.”

“Absolutely. A flea can leap hundreds of times its length. The key is power per unit of weight. Remember, an elephant can roll cars over and crush them, but it can’t leap at all.”

“And you think like this every time you see a dog catching a Frisbee.”

“I’m a scientist,” she said as if that explained everything.

“What about you and me?” I asked. “Do you have more horsepower per pound than me?”

“Well, I’m half your weight, so that would suggest maybe so. But then, you have the strength advantage that comes with testosterone.”

“Whereas you have special girly girl powers,” I said.

Street looked at me. “I’m pretty sure no girly girl ever raised maggots as part of her job.”

“An unusual mix for sure,” I said. “But I can think of at least one activity where you have more horsepower than me.”

Street made a small grin. “Would that be per pound?”

“No. Straight up. No pound adjustment necessary.”

Street reached up and hugged me. Despite the touch, I sensed a background hum of worry.

Before I could ask about it, my cell rang.

“I’ll make it quick,” I said to Street. I pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Is this Owen McKenna?” A woman’s voice.

Street was still hugging me. She heard the woman’s voice. Raised her eyebrows.

“Speaking,” I said.

“This is Sergeant Lori Lanzen of the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office. I hope you don’t mind me calling your cell. Sergeant Martinez of Douglas County gave me your number. He also… vouched for you.”

“I need vouching for? Regarding what?”

“Let’s just say you are a person of interest in a homicide,” Lanzen said. “Naturally, the concern is whether or not you’re a flight risk. Diamond thought probably not.”

Now she had my attention. “Emphasis on ‘not’ or on ‘probably?’” I asked.

Street’s eyes were wide.

“Not sure,” Lanzen said. “The victim’s name is David Montrop. Do you recognize that name?”

“No. What connects me to his murder?” I asked.

“We found a note that names you as his probable killer.”

“What?! Any idea who wrote the note?”

“The victim.”

“Montrop,” I said.

“Right.”

It took me a moment to process. “You’re saying that David Montrop, who’s dead, claims I killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Now I know why you wanted Diamond to vouch for me,” I said.

The sergeant didn’t respond.

“Where would you like me to meet you?” I asked.

“I’m at Montrop’s house in Incline. Any chance you could come here soon?”

“Either that or I flee to another country. Let me think about it for a moment.”

“I’ll give you directions,” the sergeant said, ignoring my attempt at levity.

She gave me an address and some directions, and asked when I’d be there.

“If I’m not there in an hour, send one of your teams to the Air Canada gate at the Reno Tahoe Airport.”

When I hung up, Street said, “Quite the conundrum,” she said. “A dead guy accusing you of killing him. How do you suppose you did it?”

“I’ll know soon.” I reached out and touched her cheek. “You okay? You seem stressed.”

She made a little frown and shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m just behind on work.”

I held her look a bit. It seemed as if there was a shadow across her face even though we were in the sun.

“Really,” she said. “I’ll be fine as soon as I catch up.”

I nodded even though I could tell it was something else.

We hugged goodbye, and Spot and I left.

TWO

Thirty-five minutes later, I turned into a neighborhood above Incline Village on the northeast shore of Lake Tahoe. Up the street were two Washoe County Sheriff’s patrol units parked on the shoulder, one of which had its light bar flashing.

In the entrance of a driveway that rose up from the road at a steep angle was a blue unmarked, its multiple antennas a giveaway to anyone closer than fifty yards. I parked in a bit of shade and got out. Spot had his head out the rear window, so I put him in a headlock, gave him a knuckle rub, then walked to the drive, which was made of brick laid in a pattern of overlapping arcs. A uniformed officer stopped me as I approached.

“Sorry, sir, this is a crime scene. I can’t let you pass.”

“Please tell your sergeant that Owen McKenna is here. She’s looking for me.”

The man got on his radio, said some words, got a scratchy reply, and then turned to me. “You’re right. Go on up.” He pointed up the driveway. I walked up.

The house sat behind a row of ornamental Maple trees that were just beginning to bud out in the early June sunshine. The building was made of smooth-cut stone and glass and looked timeless. It had a gabled roof made of copper, with the glass rising to the roof peaks. Where the windows met at a corner was a chimney made of polished granite blocks. To the side were two garages, with double-wide doors constructed to look like broad, modern double gates that would swing out rather than rise up.

A burgundy Mercedes was parked in front of one of the garages. On the brick driveway, 20 feet from the driver’s door lay what looked like an expensive Italian loafer. To the side of the car, near the edge of the driveway, half in the shade of a Maple and half in the sun, was the body of a man in his late sixties or early seventies. Although well dressed, his clothes failed to disguise the fact that he was thin to the point of suggesting some kind of health problem. His head was torn open at the temple, a flap of skin hanging amidst a lot of dried blood. The clothes at his chest looked like they’d been sliced up the center with an unsharpened hedge shears. The long rough opening in the fabric was soaked with drying blood.

A cop was taking pictures of the victim from every angle. Another had an evidence kit and was dusting the car for fingerprints.

The house’s entry had a large portico to drive under during snow or rain. The portico was held up by stone columns at the corners and had a stone sidewall four feet high. A cop had set a laptop on top of the sidewall. He was typing on it. The sergeant stood in the open entry, talking on her phone.

The sergeant clicked off her phone.

I walked up. “Owen McKenna, your person of interest,” I said.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m Lori Lanzen. Sergeant Diamond Martinez of Douglas County explained that you used to be with the San Francisco PD.”

I nodded as we shook hands. Her hand was small, but her grip was strong.

I gestured toward the body. “Any idea what killed him?”

She pointed past the body. “Behind those Manzanita bushes is a paddle board. It has blood on the point at the front – what’s that called? – and there’s also blood on the fin thing on the bottom of the rear.”

“The point is the bow,” I said.

She frowned. “Oh, right. The bow.”

“And the fin thing at the bottom of the stern is just called the fin. Some years back, it was called a skeg when on a sailboard. Now fin is the common nomenclature.”

“The fin,” she said. “Yes, of course. Well, no wonder the victim thinks you killed him. You have more than a passing familiarity with the murder weapon.”

I nodded. “You think it’s murder one?”

“Hard to know. It all gets down to intent, right? Clearly, we have malice aforethought. This was not a completely accidental death. At the bare minimum, the person who threw the paddle board intended harm. But first degree murder? If I planned to murder someone, my first choice of weapon wouldn’t be a paddle board, even if I were big enough to throw it. So, second degree looks more likely.”

I nodded.

“I should start by asking you the basic questions,” she said.

“Of course.”

“Do you know of or have you ever met the victim, David Montrop?” she asked.

“Never heard of him to my knowledge.”

“Have you ever been to this house?”

I shook my head as I looked around at the mountains and the lake in the distance. “I’ve never even been in this neighborhood.”

“Are you associated in any way with the music promotion business?”