Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) (22 page)

“Actually, lepidoptera is the order of insects we call butterflies. The Riodinidae family is just a small portion of all the butterflies.”   She held the amber up to the light and rotated it.

To my eye, the yellow amber was as pretty as the butterfly within.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I love it. I’m going to call it my Metamorphosis necklace. It will be a symbol for how complete transformation is an important aspect of life.”

“That’s the essence of what butterflies do, right?” I said. “The transformation from caterpillar to butterfly is a metamorphosis.”

“Yes. In fact, scientists are currently doing a lot of new research on the process.” Street put the necklace over her head, and looked down at the butterfly. “We’ve always known that when the caterpillar transforms, it pretty much dies by the usual definition of life and death. It ceases all normal functions, and its organs dissolve.”

“When that happens to us, we certainly call it death,” I said.

“Exactly! It is death, by every traditional measure. Yet somehow, some DNA that was never active in the caterpillar now becomes active and triggers the growth of an entirely new animal, a butterfly, which grows from the proteins that remain after the caterpillar dissolves. We don’t understand how it works. And we don’t have a precise vocabulary for describing it. One scientist says that the word reincarnation is the best descriptor for what happens.”

“Wow, that is pretty cool. I can see how studying bugs could sometimes be interesting.”

“Owen!” Street gave me a severe frown. “Studying bugs is always interesting. Many important things that we know about biology and evolution and life itself have come from studying insects.”

“Right.” I pointed to the amber in her hand. “The butterfly is actually not very perfect,” I said. “If you look at the right wing and the right legs, it shows some damage.”

“That’s great! That indicates that it is the real thing. Perfect specimens are nearly always somewhat artificial. People catch butterflies and pour an amber-like resin over them. In the natural world, when an insect lands on a fresh drop of amber and gets stuck or has amber drip on them from above, they struggle mightily to escape, often damaging themselves. And after they die, the wind and other insects or passing animals may damage them further before more amber can drip down and fully encase them. So this looks to be the real deal. This sample could be tens of millions of years old! It’s like a time machine, preserved from eons ago. In fact, this could be from the Eocene Epoch.”

I touched the amber. “I thought this baby was probably from the Eocene days. A hot time, the Eocene, right?”

Street’s look of tolerance reminded me of how my third grade teacher used to look at me.

It pleased me that her mood had changed. She was now thinking about butterflies from millions of years ago, and thinking about the complexities of biology. It was a great transition from moments before when she was struggling.

“I’m a lucky guy that I can give my girl a bug for a present.”

Street gave me a very serious look. “Bugs are very important.”

“So I see.”

I thought that made it a good note on which to leave.

We kissed, and Spot and I left.

When we walked across the condo lot to the Jeep, I found a ski pole spear plunged through the Jeep’s roof. Its open rear end was filed into a notch, with the remaining wings of metal flared out. The flared end stuck up about eight inches above the Jeep’s roof. The point of the pole was buried into the rear seat, slightly to the left of center.

I turned a fast rotation looking at the condo parking lot and into the woods and out toward the highway, watching for any movement. There was nothing.

I opened the front passenger door and reclined the seat back as far to the rear as it would go. “Okay, Spot, today you need to squeeze into the front seat.”

He jumped in and reached his nose back to sniff the spear that spanned from roof to seat. I held his head away.

“Sorry, Spot. We don’t want to smear any prints.”

Spot took up an awkward position on the reclined front seat, and we managed to get up the mountain without bumping the spear.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I’m a rational guy, and I’m well into my third decade of chasing bad guys. I’ve seen every kind of psycho, sicko, and weirdo. It takes a lot to unnerve me.

But the spear through the Jeep roof creeped me out. Partly, it was the boldness, a ski pole that was no doubt the brother of the ones that were thrust through the robbers’ bodies.

I called Diamond and told him. He said he could come by in half an hour.

Next, I called Street. I needed time before I decided to reveal the exact nature of a threat that might produce nightmares, but I needed to warn her. So I said, “I just realized that I never said that you should be really careful. This killer probably knows that I’m involved in the case. If so, you could be at risk.”

“It’s okay. I always know to lock my doors, and I always check the peephole before I open them. I keep Blondie with me, and look outside before I leave home or the lab. Don’t worry, Owen, I’m aware of the risk. I never forget the things that have happened because someone’s tried to get leverage on you.”

“You’re kind to just call them ‘things,’” I said. “They were horrific events. I want to make certain that nothing like that ever happens again.”

“Me, too. So continue with your investigation. Don’t worry. If I can deal with the stress of my dad, I can deal with an ordinary psycho, crazy killer who merely sticks spears through people. That’s no big deal.”

“Like I said earlier, you’re tough.” We said goodbye.

While I waited for Diamond, I called Washoe County Sergeant Lori Lanzen.

I told her, “I think I told you that Reno Armored called and asked me to investigate their armored truck robbery. So I’ve been looking into it. Last night, I tracked the robbers to a makeshift campsite on the South Shore near Baldwin Beach. I found two murder victims, who appear to be two of the four Reno Armored robbers.”

Lanzen said, “We heard. Everyone is talking about it.”

“The victims had been speared by ski poles. Most likely, one of the other robbers was the killer. I just found a similar ski pole slammed through my Jeep roof.”

“A warning.”

“Yeah. One of the victims had been speared from up high, so the killer was tall and strong. You’d have to be tall and strong to put a spear through a Jeep roof.”

Lanzen went silent as if the image took her voice away. I was about to say something when she spoke.

“I’m guessing you suspect this somehow relates to the murder of Montrop.”

“Yes. I have no evidence of connection. But the robbery, the murder of the robbers, the murder of Montrop, and the kidnapping of Montrop’s son Jonas seem like too many violent crimes in a small area. It would seem an amazing coincidence if they weren’t related. So I’m considering that they are connected.”

“I agree.”

“What did you find out about Evan Rosen’s car?”

“It had something broken on the right front wheel, but the mechanic said it would be easy to fix. She’s probably got the car back by now. The most interesting thing was that the seat was adjusted to her short stature, and there was dust in the track rail that would have been displaced had someone moved the seat.”

“So if someone stole it, either they were short, or they drove it with their knees scrunched up to make it look like Evan drove it. Any prints?”

“None other than Evan’s.” Lanzen said.

“Someone could have used gloves. If they didn’t slide their hands on the wheel, Evan’s prints would be preserved.”

“Yes. Nothing is clear. And whoever threw the paddle board must have worn gloves. The only prints on it belong to Montrop. Because the car and paddle board were both clean, this killer will be hard to catch. If the killer didn’t touch anything at Montrop’s house, we’re unlikely to find DNA. And if Evan was the killer, well, her DNA is already all over the car and Montrop’s house, so that circumstantial evidence is of no value.”  

Lanzen paused. “What’s your next move?”

“There was some money in one of the victim’s pockets,” I said, “and there were a few scattered bills as if they’d blown around the campsite. I’m exploring how to discover if the money came from the Reno Armored or possibly even from the withdrawal that Montrop made from the bank in Incline. I’m wondering if you could call the bank manager and explain that I’m investigating the kidnapping of Montrop’s son, and that you’d like her to answer my questions.”

“Sure,” Lanzen said.

“Great. Do you remember her name?”

“Hannerty. Jean Hannerty. I’ll call her right now. If you don’t hear from me, you can assume I contacted her and told her about you. Give me ten minutes.”

I thanked her, and we hung up.

Diamond drove up five minutes later. After he looked at the spear in the Jeep, he dusted it for prints. There were no marks on it of any kind.

“Hard to thrust a spear without touching it,” Diamond said.

“Yeah.”

“Oily, too. I suppose that’s to make it easier to stab through bones and organs.”

“That’s what Bains and I thought.”

“Help me remove it? Maybe we can grab it by the rear end.” He leaned in close to look at the notched, flared opening. “Looks like a staff of Hades,” he said.

“What’s that mean?”

“Hades, Greek god of death, had a staff that was forked like a two-prong pitchfork. The prongs flared out. Just like this.”

I found a locking pliers. We wrapped the end of the pole with a rag to protect it from damage and improve the pliers’ grip, and gradually cranked the pole out of the Jeep.

As we worked, I gave Diamond the details on how I found the dead robbers.

“Two robbers down,” Diamond said. “Two to go. Gotta hand it to you on the pine pitch, yellow cress, bug hunt.”

After Diamond left with the spear, I called the bank and asked for Jean Hannerty.

After a short wait, a woman said, “Hello, this is Jean.”

“Hi, Jean, my name is Owen McKenna.”

“I just got off the phone with a Sergeant Lanzen from the Washoe Sheriff’s Office. She told me you’d be calling.”

“May I stop by in an hour or so and talk to you a bit about David Montrop’s withdrawal?”

“Certainly.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

An hour later, I walked into the bank in Incline Village and asked for Jean Hannerty. I was directed to a group of three desks. Two were empty. One was occupied by a woman who was speaking on the phone. The woman was a commanding presence, partly because she was large, but mostly because she radiated control and dominance. She held the phone with her left hand. Her right arm was outstretched, making big gestures like a maestro conducting a full orchestra. Hannerty’s hair tossed and shivered as her free arm went left and right, her finger pointing at the strings, then the horns, encouraging the basses, admonishing the timpani. She saw me coming and nodded at me. She hung up, made some notes on a pad and then stood and reached out her hand. “I’m guessing that you are Owen McKenna because Sergeant Lanzen said you are very tall.”

“Good to meet you,” I said as we shook.

“I know you want to ask about David Montrop, but I don’t see what I can add. His murder has been a shock to us here at the bank. He was a good customer.” She gestured as she spoke, her fingers out, palm up. Then her hand went over her heart as she said that it was a shock. Her gestures were so demonstrative that a deaf person could have understood her without the benefit of lip reading or sign language.

“I was told that he made a withdrawal the morning he was killed. I’d like to ask about the bills that your bank gave him.”

“You’re hoping that we have the serial numbers, but we don’t record them as a general rule.” Her right arm was conducting again. “Mr. Montrop generally had us write a cashier’s check for his band payments. This time he asked for cash, which, although unusual, was not the first time. Some of the bands he books don’t have a band checking account. They like cash because then they can divvy up the money to each member.”

“Sergeant Lanzen said he withdrew twenty-five thousand. What denominations did you give him?”

“I double-checked with Mary this morning – she was at the teller window the morning Montrop came in – and she and I both remember that he asked for half in twenties and half in hundreds. But we only had ten thousand in twenties, so we gave him the other fifteen thousand in hundreds. We note the denominations so we can go back and verify if needed.”

“You said you don’t record the serial numbers as a general rule. That implies that you sometimes do?”

“I meant that as a generic statement about most banks. A few banks have bill counters that also scan for serial numbers. But they’re expensive, and we’ve never felt the need. We’re just a little small-town bank.”

Her small-town bank line sounded well-rehearsed as if she regularly tried to downplay the bank’s role in a town with enough Silicon Valley billionaires to be one of the richest towns of its size in the world.