Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) (6 page)

Evan resumed, “Nan Trudeau is our group leader. She studied psychology at Sac State. She said that the way you deal with your worst fears is to face them, and force yourself to find out that your fears can’t defeat you. So if you can’t stand to fly, you get on airplanes and confront the fact that you’re still alive after you land. If snakes are your nightmare, you go to one of those places that has snakes, and you handle them. You let them slither all over your body, and it makes you realize that they are just animals without legs. Maybe they’re not cuddly like dogs, but they’re still animals.”

I said, “So you go swimming at night.”

“Yeah.” Another shiver. “We did it as a group. Six times last summer. We got special permission to turn off all the lights in the pool room at the rec center. Then we went into the pool in the dark. It was terrifying, but we survived.”

Sergeant Lanzen said, “I imagine your goal is to do a night swim in Lake Tahoe.”

“We already did.” Evan shivered yet again, this time violently. “To make it the worst it could be, we went when there wasn’t any moon. The night was black. Black as… obsidian. There was a light cloud cover so we didn’t even have starlight. We all met at Kings Beach. Just staring out at the black water, cold as ice, created a fear in us that was breathtaking. We could barely see the water. But the black waves crashing in were huge. There was a south wind, so the waves had twenty miles to build from the south end of the lake. None of us would have ever done it alone. But we’d made a pact on a sunny day the week before. We were going to be night swimmers if it was the last thing we’d ever do. We swore on the Goddess Nyx.”

“Who’s that?” Lanzen asked.

“Gabby Hernandez told us about her. Nyx is the Greek goddess of the night. She lives in the darkness, and she’s so scary that all the other gods, even Zeus the king of gods, is afraid of her. So we made a circle and each of us held out a hand in a center stack and swore that we’d take the night swim or let Nyx have our souls.”

“And you all made a night swim,” I said. “That’s impressive.”

Evan clenched her teeth, jaw muscles bulging.

“They did,” she said. “I couldn’t make myself do it.”

Lanzen glanced at me. I didn’t know what to say.

Evan sounded like she was on some kind of edge, revealing a dark secret.

“It was the scariest thing I’ve ever contemplated,” she said. “We all gathered at the beach in the dark. We stripped down to our swim suits and walked to the water’s edge. The waves crashed on the beach, rolled up and splashed over our feet. The water was so cold that just having it on my feet made it hard to breathe.   The plan was that on the count of three, we’d all run into the water up to our thighs and then take a deep breath and dive forward into the waves. Then we’d swim underwater as far as we could. Our goal was to make it fifty yards out into the lake while staying at least three feet under.”

“You mean, hold your breath and do the entire distance without coming up for air?” Lanzen said.

Evan nodded. “It’s actually a regular swimming discipline. It’s called Dynamic Apnea. People do it in swimming pools and try to set records for how far you can swim underwater on one breath. But all we wanted to do was to confront the black water. It was an absolutely terrifying concept. Swimming underwater in the freezing lake at night. I had put on my swim goggles like the rest of the women. But when we counted to three and ran to the water, I froze. They all did it. They went out about fifty yards, swimming underwater. Only three of them came up for air just once. The other three kept going on a single breath. Just like in the pool. The whole time they swam, I was imagining that swimming underwater in Tahoe at night would feel like I was a hundred feet down and I’d never find the surface again. My feet burned from the cold of the water, and I had ferocious shivers. When the other women got out there, they treaded water together. They shouted for me, worried that something was wrong. So I lied and shouted out to them that I was okay and just had a leg cramp.”

Lanzen and I were silent, not sure how to respond to a confession about a humiliating experience. Even the confession must have been humiliating.

“They all conquered their fear of a night swim. I failed.” Evan’s lower lip quivered. She reached up and rubbed it. “The hardest thing was when I came home and Mia asked if I did the night swim. I told her I was too afraid. She looked so disappointed. It was like she stopped believing in me that night.” Evan’s eyes were moist again. “Not the first time I’ve been an utter failure,” she said. “Won’t be the last, either.”

“It doesn’t sound like failure to me,” I said. “More like a disappointment, a setback, the kind of thing that makes a person take stock of their goals, then regroup and try again.”

“That’s your approach,” Evan said. “But if enough bad stuff happens, it can drive anybody to the edge. There’s been times where if I didn’t have Mia to take care of…”

We three sat in silence for a minute.

“Dying by paddle board is ironic for Montrop,” Evan said, changing the subject.

“Why?” Lanzen asked.

“Because Montrop was getting rid of stuff. He had a garage sale. He ran ads on Craigslist. He even put stuff down at the bottom of his driveway with a sign that said ‘Free.’ It was like he’d decided that he was going to clear out the crapola in his life before the cancer could take him down. I guess you have to admire him for that, a man who’s looking at death and not turning away. But while he was throwing stuff out, he decided to buy a paddle board. So then the one thing that he does acquire becomes the murder weapon.”

“Montrop had cancer?” I said.

“Yeah. He talked about it now and then. Something about his bones, I think. He never mentioned the details, but he was frank about it. I think that when he lost his hair because of the chemo, he decided there was no point in pretending. He said it had advanced too far, and that he was preparing for his end.”

“Did he have close friends?” Lanzen asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Did he go out paddle boarding with other people?” I asked.

“Not that I ever sensed. I think he was pretty much a loner.”

There was a sound from the next room. The door opened. A woman came out. She was small of frame but still larger than Evan. She rubbed her eyes as she took a few steps into the living room. Then she saw Lanzen and me. She looked worried and brought both of her hands to her mouth. Her right hand came off her wrist at an angle, and her forearm was bent in an unusual way.

Evan jumped up. “Hey, baby, it’s okay, these are my friends Lori and Owen.” Evan hurried to the woman’s side and put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. With her other hand, she reached up and touched the woman’s face as gently as if she were touching a newborn kitten. “Come meet Lori and Owen. Guys, this is my sister Mia. Mia is my partner and pal, right, Mia? And she’s also an expert on afternoon TV. Anything you want to know, and I mean anything, you just ask Mia. Mia, say hi to Lori and Owen.”

Mia pulled one hand from her mouth and made a little wave. “Hi.” Then she wrapped her arms around Evan and hugged her.

When they stopped hugging, Mia looked at Evan’s face, frowned, and touched a fingertip to Evan’s cheek just below her red eyes. Mia looked worried, then looked over at Sergeant Lanzen and me.

It seemed a good time to leave. The sergeant told Evan that she’d be in touch about her car. We said goodbye and left.

Lanzen walked over to my Jeep. I introduced her to Spot. She pet him, and he looked rapturous.

I told Lanzen I’d try to find Montrop’s son Jonas, and I’d be in touch.

Once again, she looked hesitant. “You’re okay with helping me? This isn’t your case.”

“But it could be.”

She nodded.

SEVEN

I drove back down the East Shore. I was hungry, and I knew Spot would be dreaming of lunch, but I decided we could first look in on Montrop’s son Jonas.

It was easy to find Jonas’s house on Tahoe Keys Boulevard in South Lake Tahoe, the opposite end of the lake from where Evan Rosen lived. Jonas’s place was a small, well-kept cabin with brown siding and dark green trim. It sat close to the street, and the house number was displayed with white, metallic numbers nailed to the siding. There was no garage. An ancient, orange VW Microbus was in the middle of the small asphalt parking pad. In front of the house were two fir trees with dense foliage that blocked the view of the front door. I told Spot to be good, got out, and walked along a row of paving stones that curved behind the trees to the door.

There was no doorbell, so I knocked on the door. The tap of my knuckles swung the door in. The doorjamb was splintered. Bits of wood littered the floor.

I could call Mallory and have him send out a patrol unit, but someone could be in trouble, and I didn’t want to wait.

I didn’t know if I’d find a traumatized victim or a burglar. So I quietly stepped back outside, tiptoed back to the Jeep, and let Spot out of the back seat. I brought him to the house.

As soon as I let go of his collar, he wandered into the living room, his tail high, friendly, inquisitive. He raised his nose toward the dining and kitchen area, turned and sniffed a folding card table with a desktop computer. Then Spot immediately swung his head to the side, pointing toward the little square hallway with three doors that would lead to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Spot’s nostrils flexed. He raised his head, still air-scenting, not trail scenting. He walked with purpose to the little hallway as if he knew exactly where he was going and walked into the bedroom on the right. I was directly behind him.

I’ve learned Spot’s body language. I could tell that he wasn’t telegraphing that a person was in the room. It was more like he was following a scent that indicated recent human activity.

When I came through the door, I saw Spot sniffing a pillow that lay on the floor. The bed covers were pulled most of the way off the bed. A water glass lay on its side on the floor near the night table. The carpet had a large dark spot curving away from the glass. I bent over and touched it. There was a hint of moisture, but it had mostly dried. There was a chair tipped over. Partially draped over the tipped chair was a pair of jeans and shirt. Two socks lay nearby. A table lamp was lying on the floor a good distance away, the carpet sparkling with bits of glass from the broken bulb.

I took Spot by his collar. “Good boy,” I said as I pulled him back out of the room. “Let’s not contaminate a crime scene.”

After a quick check showed that the other bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen were all undisturbed, I pulled out my cell phone. Before I could dial, it rang.

“Owen McKenna,” I said.

“Lori Lanzen. Word of Montrop’s death travels fast around our Incline Village. I just got a call from the manager of one of our banks, the bank where David Montrop has his checking account. This morning, he withdrew twenty-five thousand dollars and asked for it in cash.”

“Did he say what it was for?”

“Yes. He told the teller that he needed the cash to make a payment for a band. His business is booking bands into concert venues across northern Nevada and northern California.”

I asked, “Did they say whether or not he often makes cash withdrawals?”

“The manager did say he often makes cash deposits. But cash withdrawals are unusual. Apparently, he usually gets a cashier’s check.”

“I may have found the real reason for the cash withdrawal,” I said. “I just got to Jonas’s house. No one’s here. The door was broken in. There are signs of a struggle. If I had to guess, I’d say that someone pulled Jonas out of bed while he was sleeping.”

Lanzen immediately said, “Someone kidnapped Jonas and demanded ransom from the father?”

“It looks that way.”

“So after Montrop delivered the money, they killed him?” Lanzen sounded disbelieving. “Do you think that’s what they did with Jonas?”

“I don’t know. Often, kidnappers keep the victim alive just long enough to get the money. Then they kill the victim to cover their tracks. So Jonas may be dead as well.”

“This all seems unusual,” Lanzen said. “Even though kidnappers sometimes kill the kidnap victim, they don’t usually kill the person making the ransom payment.”

“That’s been my experience. Most of the time, they arrange for a payment drop that keeps them physically removed from the person making the payment. It seems strange that the kidnappers would kill Montrop in his driveway. Going to his house would create a substantial risk for them.”

“But Montrop’s dead, and the cash is gone. It may be a stupid MO, but that could help us.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Stupid killers are the easiest to catch. I need to call in Jonas’s disappearance to Commander Mallory of the SLTPD and Agent Ramos.”

“The South Shore FBI office,” she said.

“Right.”

We hung up. I put Spot in the Jeep and came back with a pair of latex gloves, and, careful not to smear any potential prints, went through the pockets of Jonas’s jeans.

He had a key ring with two keys, one for a VW – probably the orange microbus – and another that looked like it would fit the front door. He had a wallet with 17 dollars in it, his California driver’s license, a Safeway Club Card, and a Bank of America debit card. I made a note of the license number and date of birth.