Tahoe Payback (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 15)

by Todd Borg

  “I can be there in an hour and a half, maybe less,” I said. “If you could delay taking the body down, I could stop on the East Shore and get my dog. He found something interesting at Fannette Island. Maybe he can take a look or a sniff.”

  “That’s why I called. We’ve already lowered the body. But maybe we can keep it here until you get here.”

  “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

  I clicked off.

  I got Street on her cell phone. “Sorry to be abrupt, hon, but I just came down Echo Summit and got a call from Sergeant Santiago about another murder, this time on the North Shore. So I’m in a hurry to pick up Spot and get to the North Shore. Does that work for you?”

  As always, Street didn’t let her emotions get in the way of work, hers or mine. “I’m so sorry to hear that. We’re at my lab. I’ll be ready for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I stopped at Street’s lab fifteen minutes later. I was glad to see the little red alarm light blinking on the security system keypad. I made a polite rap on the door. Blondie barked from inside. Spot did not. I grinned at the peephole that Street had recently gotten installed. The door opened.

  The dogs pushed out. Spot’s nose was at my hand, pushing it around. I bent down to give Street a kiss.

  “You’re welcome to come with me, if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I better focus on my work.”

  “I’ll call later.” I kissed her.

  Street nodded. “I’ll be ready to move forward on the next installment of self-defense.”

  Spot and I left.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I drove up the East Shore fast. When I pulled into Kings Beach, I saw multiple cop cars on both sides of the post office, which sits one street back from the main street and is visible from a distance. Drivers had slowed to a crawl, gawking at the cop cars. If I waited to crawl forward in my Jeep, it would take an hour. So I pulled off into a small shoulder area with a no-parking sign and parked. I let Spot out of the back.

  “C’mon boy. Let’s go and act like human death is no big deal.”

  I put my hand in his collar and we jogged forward.

  When we got to the knot of cops and onlookers, there was a line of yellow crime scene tape wavering in the breeze. I walked up. A cop stepped forward.

  “Sorry, sir, this is a crime scene.”

  “I’m Owen McKenna, here with my canine unit at Sergeant Santiago’s request.”

  I heard a voice from over by the post office. “Hey, McKenna, come on over.” It was Santiago. He held his hand up and said, “Let McKenna through.”

  Spot and I ducked under the tape and went over to Santiago. He was with two other officers. Next to him was a gurney with a body under the sheet.

  I didn’t look at Spot, and I tried to act normal. I knew Spot could smell the body as soon as we got close. But maybe I could telegraph a casualness about it.

  “The man looked dead when we got here,” Santiago said, “but we took him down as fast as possible in case he wasn’t.”

  “Hanging upside down?”

  “Yeah. His head and neck are swollen purple. Not pretty. You want your dog to look?”

  “In a minute. He’s death sensitive. So we’re practicing how to chill around dead bodies.”

  “Got it.”

  “Do you or anyone else recognize the victim?” I asked.

  “No. Some of the locals were here when we lowered the body, and they didn’t recognize him, either. So it might be a tourist. But this kind of premeditated murder, you’d think it was someone the killer knew. And to pull off such a killing without being seen suggests a local with knowledge of the area.”

  “What’s your sense of time of death?”

  “The medical examiner was here, and he thought it had been maybe ten or twelve hours based on core temperature. That would also fit for how someone could get the victim raised up on the flagpole without being seen. Tourist season doesn’t start until July. You hang out in Kings Beach at two in the morning in June, you might not see any vehicle for a long time.”

  “Who discovered the body?”

  Santiago pointed toward a cafe over on the main street. “The woman who owns that restaurant was opening up this morning when she heard the line of the flagpole clinking in an unfamiliar way. You know how those things clink in the wind.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, she said today it sounded different than normal. It made her look up. She said she could tell something was different about the flag. Like it was wrapping around something. But she couldn’t tell what. So she waited for a bit and finally there was a little breeze that ruffled the flag. That’s when she saw the body. Hanging upside down. The body was hanging by the same line that hoists the flag. It looks like the perpetrator lowered the flag, then tied the victim’s feet to the line where it attaches to the top of the flag, then raised it up to the top of the pole. The thing is, it would take a very strong and heavy man to pull hard enough to lift that body up. Or maybe a few men. It took three of us just to lower it, reeling out the line, bit by bit, the rope cutting into our hands. If we’d let go, that body would have come crashing down.”

  “Anything in the victim’s mouth?” I said.

  Santiago raised his eyebrows.

  “The victim on Fannette Island had roses in her mouth,” I said.

  “I see,” Santiago said. “This guy has a tennis ball in his mouth. I don’t see how the perpetrator got it in there. A tennis ball seems quite a bit bigger than a man’s mouth. It’s really crammed in. Probably dislocated the vic’s jaw.”

  “May I have a look? And do you have a pair of gloves?”

  “Help yourself.” Santiago gestured, and one of his deputies reached out with a dispenser box of latex gloves.

  I pulled on a pair, reached for the sheet, and pulled it down to expose the man’s head.

  The man was as described, with purple head and neck, swollen to half again its normal size. Protruding from the man’s mouth was a bright yellow tennis ball, squeezed into an oblong shape by the confines of the man’s mouth. As Santiago said, it would be hard to get a tennis ball into most people’s mouths.

  “Anything else of note about the body?” I said.

  “Not that we noticed. I wrote down his descriptors. See if you think I’m guessing right.” Santiago held up his clipboard and read off the form. “White male, about five ten, one hundred seventy-five pounds, brown eyes, forty-five to fifty years old. Thinning brown hair cut medium long, bald spot toward the back of his head. Hands soft like he’d never done physical labor in his life.”

  “Sounds accurate to me,” I said. “Did the ME have an opinion on cause of death?”

  “He said it could be any of several reasons, but exposure and the resulting hypothermia is sufficient to kill a person. Even though the weather has been a lot nicer since the woman died on Fannette Island, it still gets very cold at night. And hanging upside down for what could have been hours, that wouldn’t be good for your brain, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll have my dog take a sniff if that’s okay with you.”

  “Go for it.”

  I turned to Spot. His ears were back, and his tail was down and motionless.

  “Okay Spot!” I said with enthusiasm. “Find the scent!”

  I pulled the sheet off and urged Spot forward. “C’mon, boy. See what you can find.” I did the hand-drop gesture toward the body. “Find!”

  Spot sniffed a bit, air scenting, his nostrils flexing. “Come, boy, let’s walk around the body.” I pulled on his collar. Spot came but with substantial reluctance. He never put his nose on the body. No doubt the scents in the air were plenty strong enough.

  I walked Spot around the gurney. Spot seemed to pause just a bit at the man’s head.

  “What is it, Spot? What do you smell?”

  I thought that if I let go of his collar, he would immediately walk away. So I held on, but I loosened my grip. I tried to sense any movement.

  For a moment, Sp
ot moved his nose toward the tennis ball, then pulled his head away.

  I talked to Spot, encouraged him, acted like this was just a regular, everyday event that all people and dogs deal with. I brought Spot to the man’s feet, around the bottom end of the gurney, then back up the other side.

  Spot did nothing, alerted on nothing. His body language was lethargy and sadness.

  “Not much,” I mumbled.

  “What exactly is it that you expect him to do?” Santiago asked.

  “Find any unusual smells. He usually notices those things that stand out. It’s like a kid picking up an unusual rock off the ground. If there is something he doesn’t expect on a dead person, he will often pay attention.”

  “All I saw,” Santiago said, “was that he kind of noticed the tennis ball. And that would make sense with what you said. Something he’s not used to smelling on a body.”

  “Right. Can we take the tennis ball out of his mouth?”

  “Sure. You think it would be easier for him to smell it that way?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Plus, the tennis ball has a great chance of retaining some of the killer’s DNA or other material that relates to the killer.”

  Santiago nodded. “I already thought about that. I figure, we can take an evidence bag, turn it inside out, then use it to grip the ball to pry it out of his mouth directly into the bag.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Using a fresh pair of latex gloves, Santiago pulled a clear plastic bag from a box, turned it inside out, pulled it over his hand, and reached for the tennis ball. He got his thumb and forefinger into the corners of the victim’s lips and pulled on the ball. It didn’t move.

  “This baby seems locked in place. Let me get my fingers in deeper.” He pushed hard, pinched the ball, and tugged. It still didn’t move. “I suppose we could puncture the ball to deflate it. But I hate to do anything that alters evidence. What do you think would be best, McKenna?”

  “Hard to say. We could wait and let the ME deal with it. But I would like to get the ball out and then have my dog take a sniff.”

  Santiago nodded. “Hey, Bonnard, pull on a pair of gloves and help me with this. You pull down on the victim’s jaw while I push back on his forehead. Don’t pull hard enough to fracture it, but just to open his mouth a bit more. That should make it easier to pop this thing out.”

  The deputy did as asked, Santiago pulled hard on the ball while he pushed back on the victim’s forehead, and out came the ball.

  Santiago held the ball out. “Your dog can sniff it now.”

  “It’s not the ball I want him to smell. It’s the man’s mouth.”

  Santiago frowned.

  “C’mon, Spot. Find.” I tugged him toward the man’s head. I knew that Spot’s nose had already gotten used to the smell of the tennis ball. But I hoped that any other unusual smell would catch his curiosity.

  Spot resisted my tug. “C’mon, boy! What do you smell?!”

  Spot reached his nose over to the man’s head, his nostrils flexing. His nose shifted to the man’s mouth and gave it a sniff that some people wouldn’t notice. But I saw it as an alert.

  “Okay with you if I reach a finger in his mouth?”

  Santiago looked a bit squeamish. “If you want to, help yourself.”

  I’d been holding Spot’s collar with my right hand. My gloved left hand hadn’t touched anything. I reached my left index finger into the man’s mouth and swept it around. I found nothing near his tongue or in the main space between his tongue and palette. Then I felt inside his cheeks and hit an item. I pulled it out and held it up to the light.

  “What is it?” Santiago said.

  “Some kind of a little figure,” I said. “A tennis player swinging a racket. It’s got a type of paperclip shape on the back side so you could clip it onto something.”

  “A lapel clip?”

  “Yes, I think that’s what it is.”

  “And it looks like it’s made of gold,” Santiago said. “Makes me wonder why the killer didn’t keep it.”

  I hefted the little figure and then rubbed at it with my gloved finger. “It’s too lightweight to be metal. And in places, the gold is worn off and you can see white plastic. It reminds me of the necklace Spot found on Fannette Island. A cheap plastic trinket designed to look like metal. The kind of thing a charity might put in a mailer to ask for donations.”

  “A sports charity?” Santiago said.

  “That would be my guess.”

  Santiago got out another evidence bag, opened it and held it out. I dropped the little tennis player into it.

  “Sergeant Bains at El Dorado County told me about that necklace,” Santiago said. “What’s your take?”

  “I was just in San Francisco, and I learned that the woman who was killed on Fannette Island ran a scam charity called the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children.”

  “Now I get it,” Santiago said. “There’s a big mountain biking charity event going on in Tahoe. So we might logically think that this victim is involved in a scam charity relating to tennis.”

  “My thought exactly,” I said.

  “And,” Santiago said, thinking, “these people are maybe being killed by a disgruntled money donor. A vigilante payback of some kind. And the killer is displaying the victims in a bold way. So maybe they’re supposed to be warnings to other scammers?”

  “We’re thinking on the same track,” I said.

  “Your dog sure earned his steak today. I could see this corpse going through an autopsy and burial prep with no one ever finding that little figurine in his cheek.”

  I nodded as I pulled off the latex gloves. As I looked at Santiago, I noticed the group of people that still crowded on the other side of the crime scene tape, a mix of people similar to those who always congregate at crime scenes. Some are merely curious. Some have a fascination with death. Some are more interested in the emergency responders. Some have never seen a dead body, even one draped with a sheet. And, as cops know, once in awhile, the victim’s murderer sometimes joins the crowd to get a perverse thrill out of the excitement he’s caused.

  I scanned the people more carefully. One of the faces seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t someone I knew, but someone I felt like I’d met for a brief moment. A man, short, muscular build, with a flat-top haircut.

  “Catch you later,” I said to Santiago. “C’mon Spot, let’s take a walk,” I said in a low voice. Spot and I ambled toward the crowd, casual, slow, no sense of purpose to our movement. I ducked under the crime scene tape, then held it up so Spot could walk under. When I straightened up, the man was gone.

  I trotted toward where he’d been standing, pushing through groups of people. When I got to a small open space, I turned around, scanning near and far. There were numerous places he could have disappeared to, between cars and buildings. He could have simply turned around to face a different way. The most distinctive thing about him was his haircut. I realized that if he’d simply put on a cap, I wouldn’t recognize him.

  Spot and I walked down a side street, came back a different way. We walked over to the beach and looked both ways, east and west, down the sand. Then back to the post office.

  I tried to remember where I’d seen the man with the flat-top haircut. Then it came to me.

  When I’d left Fairbanks at his condo, I talked to two men in the parking lot. A taller guy with a goatee who said his name was Kendall Martini. Martini was with a shorter guy with a flat-top haircut. I hadn’t gotten his name. Martini said he worked at the Mountain Street Grill in Zephyr Cove. I’d stop there later.

  TWENTY-SIX

  S pot walked with a heavy gate back to the Jeep.

  “You did a good job, Spot. We’re figuring out this case all based on what you found, at Emerald Bay and here in Kings Beach. Good boy!” I rubbed the side of his chest. We got into the Jeep, and he promptly lay down on the back seat, shut his eyes, and appeared to go to sleep.

  Before I drove away from my no-parking space in
Kings Beach, I got Douglas Fairbanks on the phone.

  “I’ve learned more about Isadore. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Fairbanks inhaled as if he was afraid of what I might say. He said, “Do you want to meet at my condo? I’ve had my walk, so I’ll be here the rest of the day.”

  “I’m on the North Shore. I’ll stop by in ninety minutes.”

  “Bring Spot?”

  “He’ll insist on it.”

  When I got to Zephyr Cove, I pulled in and parked. The Mountain Street Grill was a newer restaurant with a hip, modern look of maple floors, beige walls, and black tables and chairs. There were few customers. But a lot of activity indicated they were gearing up for the dinner rush. I asked for Kendall Martini.

  He came out a minute later. His goatee looked stiff as if it had been waxed.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” I said. “I’m…”

  “Sure I do. You came by my condo building asking about Isadore. Did you find her?”

  If Martini didn’t read the news, I didn’t need to fill him in. “No, I haven’t seen her,” I said. “But I recently saw your companion from that day. A short, muscular man with a flat top. Can you tell me his name?”

  Martini shook his head. “I don’t even know his name. I met him at the Brewery that day I saw you. Just across the street from the condo complex. We got talking about craft brews. He had a thing for IPAs. After awhile, I told him that I lived in a condo on the lake just across the road. He said he was looking at maybe buying property in Tahoe. So I invited him over to see the place. You showed up asking about Isadore when I was taking him out to see the beach.”

  “Did you get his number or where he lived?”

  “No. Sorry, man. It was just a quick show-and-tell thing. You know, be friendly to the tourists and show them around.”

  I handed Martini my card. “If you see him, give me a call?”

  “Sure. Good luck finding the lady. She’s one sweet number. Hate to have her be lost.”