Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) (4 page)

Lanzen thought about it. “You don’t belong to a law enforcement agency, but I think that would be okay. Will you let me know if you’re able to find him or not?”

“Certainly. One question is, do we know if this house belongs to Montrop?”

Lanzen walked back into the study, put her latex gloves back on, and, careful not to smear any latent prints, opened the file drawers of the desk. She flipped through the folders. “There’s nothing here about taxes or utility bills or a house deed, or any of the stuff an owner would typically have. I don’t think he has another office because when I looked up Big Lake Promotions, it showed this address.”

She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through her contacts list and pressed a name. While she waited, she turned to me and said, “I know a woman who has a vacation rental company and a real estate broker’s license.”

I heard a voice from Lanzen’s phone.

“Sonia?” the sergeant said. “Lori Lanzen. I wonder if you can do me a favor? Can you please look up a house and see who owns it, where the tax bill is sent, and any related information?”

There was a pause, then Lanzen gave the address. Then she said, “The man living here goes by the name David Montrop.” After another pause, “Great. I’ll wait for your call.”

We went back outside. I pointed to Montrop’s car. “Anything of interest in the Mercedes?”

“On the floor on the passenger side was a paper grocery bag,” she said.

“Anything in it?” I asked.

“That’s the interesting part. The bag has dirt in it. Not much, maybe a half pound or so. The bag was torn, and dirt had spilled out onto the floor.”

“Judging by his house, Montrop was neat and clean. I wonder why he would carry dirt in a torn paper bag?”

“Me too,” Lanzen said.

Her cell phone rang.

“Lanzen,” she said. After a moment, she said “Really? You’re kidding.” She listened without speaking for a minute or two, then said, “I see. Very interesting. Thank you very much.” She hung up and turned to me.

“The house is owned by a Limited Liability Company called Asset Safety LLC.”

“Hard to track ownership of LLCs in Nevada,” I said.

Lanzen looked up at the house. “So maybe the money for this house came from Montrop’s financial scam, money that came from the multiple victims he defrauded. He put the money into his LLC and used the LLC to buy this house.” Lanzen turned and looked at me. “Do you think there is a way to uncover this kind of thing? Find out what that LLC owns and where its money came from?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But it wouldn’t be easy. As I understand it, one of the main reasons for having an LLC own your property is to distance yourself from your property and reduce your liability.”  

Lanzen looked at her watch, made a little start as if she realized she was taking too much time.

I got out my card and handed it to her. “I’ll try to contact Montrop’s son Jonas. I’ll let you know what I learn.”

We walked back to the front door. I looked out to where the gardener still sat on the bench. He was still rocking. “The gardener mentioned a housekeeper,” I said.

“Right. I haven’t yet gotten her contact information. Let’s do that.”

Lanzen headed out toward the gardener. I followed. “His name is Mr. Kang,” she said to me as we walked. “He speaks very little English. We may learn more when we find a Korean translator.”

“Mr. Kang?” Lanzen said as we approached.

The man stood up, his head slightly bowed. He wiped the back of his hands across his eyes. Standing, he was shorter than Lanzen, but he looked wiry and strong. His hands gripped each other hard enough to make his knuckles white.

“Mr. Kang, you said that Mr. Montrop had a housekeeper.”

He shook his head. “Clean.”

“I’m sorry?” Lanzen said. “I don’t understand.”

“House clean. Thursday. Every week.”

“Oh. Not a housekeeper, a house cleaner,” Lanzen corrected herself.

Kang nodded.

“Is this house cleaner a man? Woman?”

“Woman.”

“Do you know her address or phone number?”

He frowned, held out his hands, and turned them palm up.

“You don’t understand,” Lanzen muttered. She held her fist up, thumb and little finger extended, and put it to the side of her head. “Phone call?”

Kang nodded. He made a beckoning gesture with his hand, and walked to the house. He went in the door and turned into the kitchen, walked over to a drawer, opened it, and pulled out a small spiral notebook. He flipped a few pages, pointed the tip of his finger to a name and phone number, and handed the notebook to Lanzen.

“Evan Rosen?” she said.

Mr. Kang nodded.

“Thanks. I’ll give her a call.” She pointed to the notebook. “There’s no address, here. Do you know where she lives?”

Kang shook his head, although it wasn’t clear if he was communicating that he didn’t know or that he didn’t understand.

“Tell me, Mr. Kang, do you garden for other homes?”

Kang frowned and shook his head.

Lanzen gestured for him to come with her. She was still carrying the notebook. When we were outside, she walked over to an area with a rose garden and a curving swath of grass. She pointed to Kang, then made digging and raking motions near the roses. She stopped and pointed again at Kang.

He nodded.

Lanzen walked over to the side of the lot, pointed at Kang, then pointed off toward the neighborhood. “Other customers?” she said.

Kang nodded understanding. He came over, took the notebook from her, flipped pages, then turned the book so Lanzen and I could both see.

At the top of the page, it said, Gardener’s Schedule.

Monday, Thursday - Here

Tuesday, Friday - Fernandezes

Wednesday, Saturday - Millers

Sunday - Mows the school fields

There were phone numbers listed for the Fernandezes, the Millers, and the school.

Lanzen made a show of counting each day, then looked at Kang. “You work every day of the week?”

He nodded. “Seven day. Yes.”

“That’s a heavy workload,” Lanzen said.

He nodded again. “Good work.” He pointed to the ground. “I still garden Montrop?”

Lanzen nodded. “I think that would be good for the next week or so. Do you have a phone number where I can call you if I have questions?”

Kang turned his palms up again.

Lanzen again made the phone shape with her hand, held it to her head, then pointed to Kang.

He shook his head, and pointed at his schedule in the address book. “Monday, Thursday.” Then he pointed at the ground.

“If I want to talk to you, I can come here.”

He nodded.

“Okay, thanks,” she said.

Kang made a little bow, then backed away.

Lanzen said, “I’d like to talk to the house cleaner.” She went through the notebook and found the number. “The prefix is a common one for cell phones. Let me try our reverse directory and see if we can find an address.” She tapped on her phone, waited, tapped some more. “It’s not listed. Okay, we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” She dialed.

“May I please speak to Evan Rosen,” she said after a bit. Then, “This is Sergeant Lori Lanzen of the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to stop by and talk to you if I may.”

A pause.

“Oh?” she said in a professional, non-revealing way. “What is the make and model?” Pause. “I may have information on its whereabouts. May I please have your address?” Pause. “Thanks, I’ll be there in ten or fifteen minutes.” She hung up.

“Ms. Rosen thought you were calling about a vehicle?”

Lanzen nodded. “She says her car was stolen. A blue Toyota. She assumed that was why I was calling. She’s very upset, more than I’d expect with a stolen car.”

Lanzen nodded. She turned to one of the deputies. “Isn’t there a blue Toyota stuck in the street a block down from here? Consider it potential evidence in the murder investigation. Put it through the full routine.”

She turned to me. “You want to join me in interviewing the house cleaner?”

“Sure.”

FIVE

Sergeant Lanzen and I walked down the drive, then down the street to the blue Toyota. Its right front wheel had dropped down off the edge of asphalt so that the fender had bottomed out. From the angle of the wheel, it looked broken. There was no key in the ignition.

“Follow me?” Lanzen said.

I nodded.

She turned and walked back to her unmarked Washoe Sheriff’s vehicle. She got in and drove. I followed her in my Jeep.

We went around Crystal Bay, past the Cal Neva Resort that was once owned by Frank Sinatra, continued across the California state line and headed through Kings Beach.

Sergeant Lanzen turned off the highway at Tahoe Vista. Like most Tahoe neighborhoods, Tahoe Vista was a mix of old cabins, some of them restored to look charming and attractive. Sprinkled in here and there were newer homes built in the popular Tahoe architectural style with heavy beams and out-sized gable roofs.

Lanzen pulled up at a small, old motel with a sign that said, ‘Long-Term Rentals - First Two Weeks Free.’

It was the least appealing building in the area, with peeling olive paint and windows with torn screens. Every other door was labeled with a sign that said, ‘Suite’ followed by a letter, A through H. Above each sign was a small, antique wall sconce. It appeared that the original 16 motel rooms had been consolidated into 8 two-room apartments.

I parked behind Lanzen. Spot had his head out the window. I gave him a pet as I shut my door.

The motel appeared to sit lower at one end as if the ground below it was subsiding. Near the low end of the motel, a long piece of gutter had become detached and hung down from the eave, almost touching the ground. Lanzen walked down to the low end and knocked on the last door. The door opened. Coming from the apartment was a soft soul track by Earth, Wind & Fire. The vibration and air movement of the opening door made the low-hanging gutter swing back and forth.

“Evan Rosen?” Lanzen said. “I’m Sergeant Lori Lanzen of the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office, and this is my colleague Owen McKenna.”

Rosen nodded. She had pale white skin that amplified the dark circles under her eyes. Although she was probably in her late twenties, she looked like a child-waif, maybe five-two and ninety-five pounds. She was dressed in loose blue jeans and a green sweatshirt. Her brown hair was cut short. She appeared clean, but without the polished presentation that young women often adopt. No glossy shine in her hair and no careful brushing, no mascara or eyeliner that might enhance eyes that were large and dark. Her hands were small, her skin dry and rough, and her nails were trimmed short where they hadn’t broken or torn from labor. She telegraphed a look of fatigue.

The woman motioned for us to follow her, then turned and walked into a dark room that was as dreary as any motel one might imagine.

On a hook just inside the door hung a pair of swim goggles and a tennis racket. It seemed incongruous with the old motel accommodations because I always associated tennis with an upper middle class lifestyle. But I reminded myself not to judge by appearances. The woman might play tennis with the best of them. At second glance, the tennis racket looked quite beat up. At the top of the rim, there was substantial wear as if she struck the court when she made ground shots.

The space was lit by a single ceiling light with a bulbous, frosted-glass diffuser. The vinyl flooring had cracked near the entry door. A tattered couch faced a TV so old it had probably broadcast original episodes of The Rockford Files. On one wall was a stained, laminated counter with a sink, a two-burner stovetop, a miniature fridge, and a microwave with dark rust and corrosion at its edges. In the back corner of the room, across from the entry door, was a small table with two folding chairs. The combination was about the size of my cabin’s kitchen nook. Although my facility, with an oven and a full-sized fridge, was relatively luxurious. From where I stood near the front door, I could see that the floor sloped enough that any vibration from a truck in the street might make the chairs gradually vibrate and shuffle across the floor until they hit the kitchen sink.

The woman picked up a folding chair and set it down so that it faced the couch. She sat on the chair.

As we sat on the couch, I thought that it might be hard to come home to this apartment after cleaning houses like Montrop’s.

Evan Rosen looked at the two of us as if to memorize our clothes, our shoes, our demeanor. Her stare didn’t seem judgmental, but her face had a melancholy set to it as if she was seeing in just our clothes a lifestyle that she thought would be forever out of reach to her.

“You found my car?” she said. “Where was it?”

“Do you know who took it?” Lanzen said, ignoring her question.

“No. I just woke up and saw it gone. At first, I panicked. Then I realized that, because I haul all my cleaning tools in every night, I hadn’t lost everything.” She glanced toward a small closet near the front door. “Everybody thinks all you need to clean houses is a rag and some Windex. But I’m like a carpenter. Different tools, but similar in concept. Does my car still run?”