Tahoe Skydrop (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 16)

by Todd Borg

  “You know I’m a Luddite,” I said.

  “And proud of it,” she said.

  “Sometimes. What do we do? Do we hold your phone camera in front of us?”

  Street laughed. “No, we just sit in front of my laptop. I’ll show you.”

  There was a bark at the door, Blondie’s call to be let in.

  I opened the door. The two dogs rushed in, bouncing and panting. As Blondie ran to greet Street, I grabbed Spot and held him tightly to calm him down. “Remember the poem about the rule of space, Largeness. Outdoors, we fly around. Indoors, we lie down.”

  I got him to lie on the rug in front of the cold gas fireplace. Blondie lay near him. I went back to Street.

  We sat on her couch, and she set her laptop on her thighs. Then she reached up to the top of the screen and removed a piece of Post-it note.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I cover up the webcam when I’m not using it.”

  “Why not just turn it off?”

  “Because a clever hacker can turn it on from anywhere in the world.”

  “Really? That isn’t just urban legend?”

  Street laughed. “If so, Mark Zuckerberg, the guy who started Facebook, believes in urban legends. Low-tech tape for the ultra-high tech zillionaire. He says he knows how easily hackers can turn on your computer’s camera and then see everything you do. He recommends everyone cover it with a piece of tape when they’re not using it. The FBI says the same thing.”

  “Another reason I haven’t fully bought into the modern world.”

  Street picked up her phone. “I’ll send Nina a text, first. She’ll let me know if this is a good time for Skype or not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  To set up the call, Street first tapped a bit on her phone. Then she hit send.

  In less than a minute, her phone beeped. She looked at it and said, “Nina says this is a good time.” She turned and looked at me. “I should maybe warn you. Nina is quite a character, so be prepared.”

  “I picked that up from the self-medicating reference.”

  Street tapped buttons on her computer, and then a symbol in the corner of her screen started flashing.

  At first there was just audio. Street talked to Nina for a bit, and then Nina must have turned on her camera. Or removed the tape. The screen suddenly showed Nina’s face as she sat in front of her computer. She was a large, smiling woman with a substantial, messy helmet of brown hair. In her left hand was a tall glass filled with a green drink and a wedge of lime.

  “Hi Nina, thanks for being available,” Street said.

  “Street, hon, you know I’m happy to talk to you any time. Plus, a shrink like me is always eager to explore the recesses of that science exploratorium you call a brain. Hey, who’s the hunk next to you? Turn your computer so I can see him better.”

  Street shifted the laptop a bit.

  “Hi, sugar,” she said. “My name’s Nina.”

  “Owen McKenna,” I said. “Pardon my awkwardness, but this is the first time I’ve done - what do you call it - picture talking.”

  “Oh, I love you already. Street, he is sooo adorable. Picture talking! That makes this whole thing sound delightfully charming. Mr. McKenna, dear, thanks to you, I’m never Skyping again. I’m going to do picture talking. Better yet, I’ll make it a verb. I’ll picture talk you.”

  “And I’ll picture talk you back, Ms. Mazzo,” I said.

  “Hey, Owen,” Nina said. “I like to speak my mind directly, so I’ll just say this straight up. When you tire of that beautiful, skinny woman of yours and you want a woman with serious curves who doesn’t keep bugs in jars everywhere, you just picture talk me and I’ll pick you up at Honolulu International.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Sorry, Street, sweetie,” Nina said. “Didn’t mean to ignore you and talk around you. I got a little brain scattered when I saw your boy pal, there. But I’m back. Totally focused on you. Well, mostly focused. Maybe you should turn your computer away from him. What’s happening?”

  “Actually,” Street said, “I’m calling because of a case Owen is working on.”

  “Oh! That’s right. Owen, Street told me some time back that you’re a detective! How romantic is that?!”

  “Not very,” I said.

  “Owen has a client whose child has gender issues,” Street said. “I told Owen that if he wants to learn about that, the person to talk to is you.”

  Street gave a thorough but succinct explanation of what we’d learned about Jonni Cooper.

  “We have lots of words for this stuff,” Nina said when Street was done. “And it’s evolving very fast as society comes to terms with something that should be no big deal. The words change every ten minutes. As of five minutes ago, we used the blanket term gender dysphoria.”

  “Dysphoria?” I said. “That sounds serious.”

  “Sorry,” Nina said. “We have so many terms we use, and the DSM-Five is always changing them.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry again. The DSM is the shrink Bible. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. And now that I’ve explained that, you can just forget I mentioned it. Anyway, the terms shift because we develop an increased understanding. For example, think of terms for disability. We’ve gone from crippled to handicapped to disabled to challenged to a person with disability.”

  “Different terms that mean the same thing?” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Nina said. “From a shrink’s perspective, linguistic fluidity can be stylistic, but it can often be very helpful. As people develop and learn new terms, they become more sensitive. When they hear that it is no longer appropriate to refer to someone as crippled, it causes them to stop and think about if and how they put people into boxes. Nomenclature adjustments can contain powerful lessons, teaching us to think more carefully about people who aren’t exactly like us.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  Nina continued. “So dysphoria is simply a term for the state of being ill at ease, of feeling unsatisfied with life. It comes from the Greek word dysphoros, meaning hard to bear. As it relates to gender, it’s just what you’d imagine. Gender dysphoria describes someone struggling with discomfort regarding their gender. They are usually uncomfortable with their bodies. And they often - but not always - feel they are a different gender from the way they were born. In subtle contrast to that, the current popular term of transgender is narrower and is usually used to describe someone who senses a mismatch between the way they perceive themselves and the way they look. But in the case of the person we call transgender, they often feel okay with their bodies. Despite the mismatched psychological gender and physical gender, they may accept their situation and suffer no dysphoria. But having said that, I should let you know that tomorrow the nomenclature will shift again, and we’ll be using a new set of terms.”

  Nina sipped her margarita. But unlike Street’s delicate sips, Nina drank with what seemed like lust for her medicine.

  “You imply that there are large numbers of people who have discomfort related to their gender,” I said.

  “Absolutely,” Nina said. “It goes to the core of the subject. For example, people can’t even agree on what we mean when we refer to a person’s gender. Physical? Psychological? A mix of the two? Bottom line is, the old nineteen fifty’s movie concept of boy meets girl, boy goes to bed with girl, and then boy sleeps with a smile all night doesn’t apply to a surprising number of people.”

  “Gender dysphoria manifests in many ways, right?” Street said.

  “More ways than we can count.”

  “It’s sad that so many people have this problem,” I said.

  “Yes and no.” Nina slurped more margarita. “The truth is that in many cases, the problem doesn’t belong to the person affected. The problem belongs to society. Take away society’s harsh judgments, and many with gender dysphoria no longer feel there’s a problem.”

  “I’m not sure I understa
nd,” I said.

  “Sometimes the only problem that people with gender issues feel is their awareness that society judges them harshly. Here’s a revealing example. In much of the Polynesian diaspora, Samoa especially, society recognizes three genders. There are men, women, and feminine men. They call the feminine men Fa’afafine, or sometimes Fafa for short. These are people who appear to be physically male, but appear to be psychologically and emotionally female. A common way the Fafa come to be is when a family has a boy who clearly acts feminine. Instead of fighting the child and making him feel bad the way many western societies do, they accept him as a feminine boy. And they raise him to be a feminine boy. They let him or even encourage him - or I should say her - to do what society thinks are feminine activities and dress in feminine clothes and pursue feminine ways. As with all people, the Fafa don’t always fit into clear categories. However, it appears that many if not most of them perceive themselves as females. Often the only difference between them and other women is that they have men’s bodies. Because of society’s acceptance, many Fa’afafine grow up happy and well-adjusted, and they don’t feel the stress that so many people in western societies feel. When the Fafa have a sexual relationship with a man, they don’t see it as homosexual, and neither does the man. Both people feel it is heterosexual sex, involving a woman and a man. But in this case, the woman has a man’s body.”

  “Fascinating,” Street said.

  “Yes! Because of the lack of societal judgment, the Fafa don’t suffer gender dysphoria! They’re fine with their gender as they see it. They’re valuable members of society. And society accepts them as they are. In some cases, society celebrates the Fafa and their contributions to their world. They hold every kind of job including high-status jobs, judges and doctors and professors. When it comes to gender, Samoa appears to be a far more successful society than ours.”

  I said. “Take away society’s harsh judgment and people are fine with who they are regardless of how they perceive themselves on the gender spectrum.”

  “Exactly,” Nina said. “Live and let live is a good motto. This is not to say that people with non-mainstream gender are problem-free in Samoa or anywhere else. Like people in any group, some people do better than others. And there are some narrow-minded people and bigoted people even in Samoa, many of whom sometimes discriminate against the Fafa. But the lessons from Polynesia are dramatic and clear. Gender problems don’t arise innately from the individual. The problems come from those people in society who, for whatever reason, can’t accept that all people are okay, regardless of their gender or sexuality. Of course, society has the right to certain standards as regards not harming others, especially children. But society shouldn’t tell an individual how to feel. Remove those pejorative attitudes and people thrive.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Why do you suppose society is so harsh on people with non-mainstream gender?”

  Nina drank the last of her margarita. “I believe people are narrow minded about sex and gender issues for the same reason they are narrow minded about race and religion and other significant cultural characteristics. It’s tribal. Our tribe’s way is the right way. That other tribe is scary and probably bad. Open-minded people celebrate diversity and love being around others who don’t look like them or act like them or speak like them or dance and sing like them or enjoy the same things they enjoy. Closed-minded people want homogeneity. They want to be with others just like them in every way. They’re afraid of people who look different or act different. And they certainly don’t want those different people living next door to them or teaching their children. This probably goes back hundreds of thousands of years to when you only trusted people you personally knew, people who lived in the same cave as you, who were, of course, just like you. And you feared people in other tribes. Today, most people find that narrow mindedness wrong. But it still exists. And there are few things that bring it out so much as sex and gender issues.”

  Nina paused.

  “One more question, if I may,” I said.

  “Do I need to get another margarita first?”

  “Maybe. But I’ll make it short. These kids who believe that their gender is not what their parents think... How young are they when they come to this realization?”

  “To my knowledge, no one has made a definitive study about that. But from my own experience, it’s pretty common that kids as young as five or six come to think that. They may not articulate it at the time. But those of us in the therapy business often hear comments like, ‘I knew I wasn’t oriented according to the way I was born when I went to kindergarten, because that was the first time I spent much time with significant numbers of boys and girls. And it was immediately obvious that I didn’t belong in my group. I belonged with the other sex.’”

  “Nina,” I said, “you’ve been extremely helpful. I’ve learned a great deal, and I appreciate it. So much so that we’ll picture talk again.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Owen McKenna,” Nina said. “Remember, Street,” she added, “when you’re done with him, I get him next.”

  They said goodbye and hung up.

  Street and I sat quietly and sipped more wine.

  “A big, serious subject,” I said. “Both gender stuff and kidnapping stuff.

  Street nodded.

  “Maybe we should change the subject,” I said.

  Street said, “I’ve often noticed how books and movies depict characters suffering from major stress caused by war or crime or persecution. They show the characters responding with - what’s the best way to say it without sounding crass? - bedroom appetites. I suppose its a kind of survival instinct.”

  I reached over and traced the edge of her face and jaw with my fingertip. “I love it when you bring up my favorite subject without any prodding from me. Is this when I should give you a shoulder rub so I can surreptitiously move your collar a bit to the side to see if the lacy shoulder strap of my favorite peach camisole is visible?”

  Street gave me the shy smile that quickened my heart rate and my breathing. “But we should savour this wine, first, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. It’s important to keep honing our vino work ethic.”

  Street picked up her glass and guzzled another four or five drops.

  In an effort to keep us from getting lost in thought about people in serious trouble, I said, “I recall the decoration on your camisole straps. Little stitched loops, right? Floral-like, alluding to future potential discoveries. And the stitching is a contrasting color, isn’t it? Lavender against the peach? Am I observant or what?”

  “I love you even if you get the details of my garment all wrong.”

  “I’m distracted, no doubt, by what the garment contains in its embrace.”

  “The hopeless romantic,” Street said.

  “I strive for art and romance and fear I achieve neither. But if the highly-educated lady should allow the peasant ex-cop an exploratory voyage, perhaps he would find the truth.”

  An hour later, before we’d discovered where we’d dropped all of our clothes, I poured my last glass of wine, saving a drop for Street. She took that drop with enthusiasm.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In the morning, Street had to go to an appointment first thing. So Spot and I drove up to my cabin for coffee out on the deck. I called Vince Cooper.

  “McKenna here,” I said when he answered. “I found your kid at a remote house. Sh… He’s alive and well.”

  “What?! He’s okay? That’s fantastic! Let me talk to him.”

  “I don’t have him. He’s under armed guard. Three men with weapons. Probably the men you took up Job’s Sister.”

  “Those bastards! Where is he? Let’s go get him. I don’t care about those men. I’ll kick their ass!”

  “Slow down, Vince. First, I’m not exactly sure of the location because I bushwhacked there up a mountain through a heavy forest. There was apparently a drive that goes there, but it doesn’t show on maps. We’ll need to figure out
the exact location. Second, the men are heavily armed. Guns and rifles and knives and an attitude that suggests they wouldn’t hesitate to use them.”

  “But Jon’s okay, right? They haven’t hurt him?”

  “Yes, he seems okay. I saw Jon from a distance. I couldn’t get close enough to talk. I’d like to come to your place so we can make a plan. I live directly across the lake from you, so I’ll be there in an hour and a half. I’ll tell you all about it then. In the meantime, I want you to check your email. See if anything has come in from Jon.”

  “I just was on email. There was nothing.”

  “It’s possible you got an email from an unfamiliar address. Jon doesn’t have access to his phone. But he might have been able to use a guard’s phone to send an email from a different web-based address. You wouldn’t recognize that address as familiar.”

  “Oh, no!” Vince said.

  “What?”

  “I may have screwed up big time. I was just purging my junk mail. One of them had that little red priority flag. The subject line said something like ‘Extremely Important’ with an exclamation point. I thought it was one of those spam sex emails. Maybe it was Jon!”

  “Maybe. See if there is a way for you to retrieve that email. Maybe it wasn’t completely purged and went into the trash folder instead.”

  “I’m an idiot!” Vince said. “How could I be so stupid. I’ll check again.”

  The sun was climbing high in the sky as Spot and I showed up at the caretaker apartment where Vince and Brie lived near Homewood. Spot trotted up the stairs to the door, and Vince let us in. Brie stood nearby. She had that happy sad look as if she was so glad I’d found Jonni alive, and yet was still so worried.

  Vince looked weary and worn out. No doubt he hadn’t had any decent sleep since his kid was kidnapped.

  “I checked my email,” Vince said as he put on a pot of coffee. “There was no way to retrieve the ones I deleted.”