by Todd Borg
“Wasn’t calling for that, and I’m not eager to tell you this on your big day in San Fran. Jim Giniesch, my realtor friend, just called. Found your house. Over in Sierra Tract.”
“Mallory know yet?”
“No. Figured you should have a look first. See what you think. But Jimmy thinks it’s perfect match with the drawing. Even has two motorcycles parked outside.”
“Address?”
Diamond gave me the number and street. “Jimmy says it’s two blocks from Sierra Boulevard.”
“Thanks. I’ll drive by before I call Mallory.”
I left Spot, took one of the copies of Silence’s drawing with me, and headed out. If it didn’t look right, I could still make it to Street’s talk. If it was a ringer for the house in the drawing, well, I’d better turn up with the girl alive and well.
I had no way of knowing whether the kidnappers knew I was looking for them, and if so, if they had gotten a description of me or of my Jeep. My default presumption was that it was still Tony Go’s kidnapping and that the boys in the house not only knew all about me but were waiting for me to show up. Even so, I figured that if I drove by at a steady speed and didn’t slow down, then it was unlikely that anyone in the house would notice me. Tahoe is filled with Jeeps just like mine.
I looked at the number pattern on the street two blocks over and planned it so the house would be on my right, out the passenger window. That way a spotter would have less of a chance of getting a good look at me. I still had my summer straw hat in back, and I put it on at an angle to obscure my features.
When I turned onto the street, I drove at a steady 20 miles per hour. As I approached, I took a last scan of the area to look for kids or dogs. Seeing none, I concentrated on the house as I cruised by without slowing.
It was identical to the drawing. Same door and window placements, and the same roof layout with the gable dormer on the front and the shed dormer on the side. I tried to see if there were boards screwed across the upstairs window, but the reflection of the sky in the glass was too bright.
In front of the house, perched on kickstands and leaning over at precarious angles, were two Harleys. The one with the red metallic gas tank was custom chopped, and the one with the green tank was not. They looked identical to the bikes Marky and Tiptoe rode.
As I went past, I turned to see if I could get a glimpse toward the back of the house. Just like the drawing, there was a gable dormer on the back. And the yard was enclosed by a wooden fence.
Only one more thing to find out.
I parked one block down and one block over. I switched the straw hat for a baseball cap with a Yosemite logo and got out.
I approached on the street behind the house. Kept the baseball cap canted to shade my face. Walked at a steady pace, not fast, not slow. Didn’t slow down or hesitate or turn my head.
I watched for the tree. I didn’t move my head, but I turned my eyeballs as if to twist them out of their sockets.
There it was. Then it disappeared behind a neighbor’s shed. There it was again. I memorized those branches. Burned them into retinal memory.
I got two more glimpses of the tree and then I was past.
Think. Concentrate. Focus. Pick a level and count them from memory. Eight. I was sure there were eight branches visible just above the neighbor’s shed. Now count one level higher.
I closed my eyes as I walked. Scrunched them tight, trying to see something already gone. It was confusing. Branches in front of branches. Count them!
Maybe I was dreaming, but I could visualize thirteen branches. Maybe twelve, maybe fourteen. But I was fairly certain the number was thirteen.
Now came the hard part. The next level.
Concentrate. Count them. Left to right. Count them again, right to left.
It was too difficult. I tried to count them from memory four different times, suddenly realizing I was walking down the middle of the road three, maybe four blocks down from the house. I turned the corner and went perpendicular. In another block I’d double back to the Jeep.
I tried again. Shut my eyes, visualized the pattern and counted. My best guess was it had seemed like eighteen or nineteen. Considering how easily one branch obscures another, especially from a distance, it could have been twenty.
Or twenty-one.
Eight, thirteen, twenty-one. Fibonacci numbers.
Silence’s prison.
Back in the Jeep, I watched the house as I called Diamond.
“Sergeant Martinez,” he answered.
“Diamond, I think it is the house.”
“Matches the return-address drawing on Silence’s letter?”
“Yeah. Two Harleys out front, just like your realtor friend said. Same bikes as belong to a couple bikers who tried to warn me off. Tree in back matches, too, same branch pattern.”
“That number series?”
“Yeah.”
“Any sign of the girl?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m going to run to my office, look up the owner. Are you still on duty?”
“Just got off. You want a stakeout?”
“Pay your moonlighting fee in Carta Blanca if you want.”
“When do you need me?”
“Now,” I said.
There was a short wait while he thought about it. “I’m down in Carson Valley. Take me some time to get up there. Where will you be?”
I told Diamond where I was parked and he showed up twenty minutes later. “That was fast,” I said as I got out of the Jeep.
“Sounded urgent,” Diamond looked around the neighborhood.
I gestured down the street. “Through the trees over there. A block over, a block up. You can just see a blue-gray house, two-story, just to the left of the green rambler. The front door is visible under the fir tree. The backdoor faces the fenced yard. You can see the gate in the fence. You should be able to see if anyone goes in or out.”
Diamond nodded. “What’s your plan?”
“After I find out who the homeowner is, I’ll call you and check in.”
I did an online search and found the property owner, a Manford Poltacci who lived in Contra Costa County in the Bay Area. I called the number listed for him, got a machine and left a message asking for a return phone call. Then I called the City Hall in the town where Poltacci lived. They were closed on Saturday, but the message gave an emergency number. I dialed it, got an operator and eventually got routed through to a woman who could access the city’s database.
“This is Detective Owen McKenna calling from Lake Tahoe. I need to get in touch with a Tahoe property owner, a Mr. Manford Poltacci who lives in your town. We have an urgent situation that requires his attention. The number we have is the nine-five-nine-eight number, but all we get is his machine. I’m calling to see if you have an alternative or emergency phone number in your records.”
“Oh, dear, I hope everything is all right,” she said, exuding worry. “You said you were a detective?”
“Yes. Working on a case that may impact one of Poltacci’s properties. Of course, this is all very confidential until the case is sorted out. But I’m sure we can count on you to keep this to yourself.”
“Oh, yes, sir. We have the utmost respect for our citizen’s privacy rights. Here, I found the record. There is a cell listed. Would that help?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She read the number, I thanked her again and dialed it.
“Yello,” a high male voice answered.
“Mr. Poltacci?”
“Yessir.”
“Detective Owen McKenna in Lake Tahoe calling. Sorry to intrude on your private number. We’ve got a situation that may involve your tenants in your house in Sierra Tract.”
“Damn! I knew I shouldn’t have rented it to them. They were clean-cut, gave good references, you know the routine. But afterward I thought the references were probably relatives. And those kids are young. Never rent to kids, I always say. But landlords all face the same dilemma, you know what I mean? Th
e people who’d make the best renters already own their own homes. So what did they do? Burglary? I wouldn’t think they were bold enough for robbery. Then again, they’re not smart enough for
anything complex. Things like embezzlement, tax fraud, identity theft, people who do those things probably own their homes. Am I right?”
I was thinking about Marky and Tiptoe. They weren’t clean cut, and they weren’t kids. But the bikes matched. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be that one pair of men borrowed bikes that belonged to the other pair. Or maybe Marky and Tiptoe lived with the renters.
I said, “Mr. Poltacci, what I need is their names and some identifying information. Whatever you’ve got. Birth date and Social Security number are the most helpful.”
“Right. Hold on, I’m just pulling up to my office. It’s in the file inside.”
I waited and listened to car sounds and doors being opened and shut and the heavy breathing of an out-of-shape man negotiating a hallway and an elevator and another hallway. Finally, I heard a file drawer being opened. “Okay, lemme see, I organize these by street number. That one is a five hundred number, right? I can never remember. Oh, here we are. Jimmy and Jeremy Carmensen. Brothers. Both single. And get this, under the employment section they put down chefs. Is that something or what? The kids claimed they were both chefs and I believed it. Well, maybe I didn’t, but they had the deposit and the first and last month’s rent. Money talks, right?”
“Does your form have their Social Security numbers?”
“Of course. I’m thorough. You have to be thorough in this business. You ready?”
“Ready,” I said.
He read off both numbers, which were one digit apart.
“Twins?” I said.
“Identical. Can’t tell’em apart.” He also gave me their birth date and their California Driver’s License numbers. “Tell me again what they’re wanted for?” he said.
“We’re still in the preliminary stages of our investigation so I can’t reveal details. But once a warrant is issued it is official. You will be informed when that happens. Until that point, we’d appreciate it if you respect the confidentiality of our investigation.”
“Of course. I never talk out of line. Discretion is my middle name. Just one thing. Tell me my house is still okay. Tell me they haven’t trashed it.”
“It looks fine. This isn’t about the house,” I assured him.
“Good, good. That is good to hear.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
“Lemme know when that warrant goes out,” he said. “And take my advice, never rent to kids.” The resignation in his voice was heavy as he hung up.
Armed with names and identifying numbers I was able to quickly pull up criminal records and found that Jimmy and Jeremy Carmensen were from Long Beach. They had both been arrested two years ago after speeding on their motorcycles and leading police on a long high-speed chase up Highway 1 from L.A. to Malibu and points north. They had an affiliation with a skinhead biker gang called the Hotzis.
A little more research revealed that the Hotzis were actually run by an East German immigrant and art student at UCLA named Boris Hotauski. Hotauski gave soapbox speeches in parks and on street corners claiming that the Holocaust never happened, and that it was a Jewish invention as part of a Jewish conspiracy to take over the U.S. Government. I found nothing that indicated what, if anything, the Carmensen brothers had done with the gang besides getting the gang logo tatooed on the base of their heads where it would only show if they shaved their heads, which, back then, they did.
I dialed Mallory.
“Commander, it’s Owen,” I said when he barked his hello. “I’ve got a report on some bikers who tried to scare me off Silence’s case. They claim to work for Antonio Gomez. I later met with Gomez and will also run that by you. But that can wait. We may have the house where the girl is being held.”
“How do you know?”
I explained about the match with the drawing, the tree in back with branches matching Fibonacci numbers and the house’s tenants, the Harley-riding, neo-nazi Carmensen brothers who’d been arrested after an attempt to evade police. “Also, their motorcycles match those of the men who tried to scare me off. Those men went by the nicknames Marky and Tiptoe. They can’t be the same as the tenants, who are described as young twins. But the matching bikes are suggestive. All four men could be using the same two motorcycles.”
“We’d still need more specific evidence for probable cause,” Mallory said. “There are no words on the drawing indicating that the picture is where she is being held. We’re just inferring that bit of information. Hell, we ain’t even got proof the drawing was done by the Ramirez girl. And how many houses look like that drawing, anyway?”
“Previous arrests and affiliation with a neo-Nazi biker gang is suggestive,” I said.
“Absolutely. And when Antonio Gomez came along, they probably switched to the Granite Mountain Boys because Gomez’s halo was bigger and brighter than the Nazi’s halo. I understand why you’re antsy, McKenna. But you know I’m looking at Fourth Amendment hell if I convince a judge to sign paper on that. Not that I could.”
“Let me see what else I can find,” I said. I realized that Mallory was right and I shouldn’t have called until I had something more. I was overeager and it was affecting my judgement.
We hung up.
I got up and paced around my little office. I stared out the window at the huge, blue, second-highest large lake in the world. My phone rang and I picked it up.
“There’s a girl at the downstairs window,” Diamond said. “Looks like some guy is holding her arm. But I can’t see him. He’s in the shadow.”
“You can see clearly from that distance?”
“These glasses are eight-power. You think I’d go to a stakeout without some refractive help?”
“What color is her hair?”
“Brown. Hangs straight down. Can’t see the length behind her back. Oh, wait. He’s turning her sideways. There we are. Comes to maybe six inches below her shoulder.”
“Her build?” I said.
“Hard to say. Looks thin. Skinny, almost.”
“Can you make her from the picture I showed you?”
“Hard to say. This girl’s got cheekbones, I’ll give you that much. And Silence has cheekbones, too.”
“Her face is half cheekbones. I’ll call you back.”
I got Mallory back on the phone.
“Diamond’s looking at the girl through the window as we speak.”
“The girl or a girl?” Mallory said.
“A girl. Probably the girl. Same hair, same build, same cheekbones.”
“Can I tell the judge it’s a solid ID?” he asked.
“It’s a likely ID. Probable cause for me,” I said. “My concern is what happens to the girl. If you knock and announce, that will put the girl at supreme risk. The Supreme Court exceptions to a Knock-and-Announce warrant include Apprehension of Peril. Knowing the kidnap victim is in there, you could make an unannounced forced entry predicated on saving her life.”
“Look McKenna, I know you want the guys that did this. Having them try to scare you off cranks up that desire. I’ve been there, felt the taste in my mouth, too. But I won’t do it. If you’re convinced a no-knock entry is justified on Diamond’s ID, then you do it. You don’t even need the police or a warrant. You know how it works. You get a large friend or two. You happen to be walking the neighborhood. Maybe you even have some legal armament. You hear something and see something that indicates the girl’s life is in peril. It calls to your duty to save her from being victimized in a violent crime. You go in as private citizens and get her out. If she’s really there and in mortal danger, then that kind of intrusion is legal. If you’re right and you rescue a kidnap victim, they’ll give you a medal.
“But if you’re wrong, you’ll be convicted in the criminal prosecution and lose everything else in the follow-up civil lawsuit.
“Wh
at’s your decision?” he continued.
I thought about it, tried to calm myself. Maybe Mallory was right. I was too eager. “Okay. Play it conservative.”
“Judges are hard to reach on Saturday morning,” Mallory said. “Iffy, finding one. Iffier convincing the judge that this is where a kidnap victim is being held prisoner. But maybe I can do it. He or she signs the warrant, we put together a team. Because the girl may be in there and she’ll be in danger, we’ll squeeze the Knock-and-Announce rule. Instead of twenty seconds, we give them about a five-count, then go in front and back.”
“Let me know as soon as you find out anything,” I said.
I was pacing my small office, back and forth, when Mallory called half an hour later.
“I caught the judge on the third green at Edgewood. Briefed him by phone. Says he’ll sign. He maybe thinks the ID on the girl is firmer than you described.”
“But I said it was a likely ID, not a firm one.”
“We’ll have a team ready in a couple hours,” he interrupted. “Meanwhile, I’ve got two men in the neighborhood, a block the other side of where Diamond is watching. We want to see everybody stays put.”
I took some deep breaths.
After I hung up, I called Street’s cell and got her voicemail. “Sweetheart, I’m very sorry, but I won’t be able to make your talk. We found the house where Silence is being held. The police are going in this afternoon. I’ll check in with you after your talk. Good luck.”
They went in at 3:00 p.m. just when Street would be finishing her paper in San Francisco. I watched from a few houses down.
Eight officers rushed the house. The first one to reach the front door pounded on it three times and yelled, “Police! We have a warrant to search your house! Open the door!”
Five seconds later they kicked in the front and the back doors at once.
The two 20-year-old Carmensen brothers were watching TV in the living room. They were put on the floor at gunpoint and frisked. Their 19-year-old sister was taken from the upstairs bedroom where she’d been napping and brought downstairs in her sleep shirt and underwear. The officers were efficient, professional and understandably rough. As a result, one of the boys broke his wrist as he hit the living room floor during the frisk. The other hit his nose on the floor and it bled profusely. The girl’s shirt was torn, and she sustained a substantial bruise on the side of her ribcage.