Tahoe Silence

by Todd Borg

  “Well, of course I have a van. Left over from my dealer days.” He waved his arm up toward his four-car garage. “Once you have a van, it’s hard to ever go without one. Too useful. In my case, it’s not so much me as my two nephews. They’re always borrowing it for something.”

  “A panel van?”

  “Why, yes, actually.”

  “Has anyone borrowed it lately?”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. McKenna. I see where you’re going. No. No one has used my van in a couple months. For all I know, the battery’s run down again and I’ll have to charge it before I can get it running. I got rear-ended a year ago, right after Claudette passed on, and it caused some kind of a short. A trickle short, the mechanic said. But he couldn’t find it. So every few months the battery runs out. And me, an ex-car dealer. Embarrassing to say the least.”

  “Are you out of the car business completely?”

  “Almost. I still have a minority position in a dealership by Redding and another one up in Oregon, but I sold the rest.”

  “Enjoying retirement?” I said.

  “Yes. Although I’m quite active in our investment group. We’ve moved into some VC work. Much more interesting than stocks and bonds.”

  “VC?”

  “Venture Capital. Private Equity. It’s quite exciting searching out the next big thing. But instead of just investing in a company after it begins to market a hot idea, we get in on it from the beginning. You get a much bigger stake that way. Bigger risk, too, of course. So far, we’ve helped create two startups.” Emerson eased himself down and sat on the boulder next to Marlette. This was clearly a favorite subject. “High tech stuff,” he continued. “One of them is in Reno, started by two young kids who were with Hewlett Packard. A new type of hand-held device. I can’t really say much about it except that people won’t be quite so connected to their laptops once this hits the market. The other company we’ve helped start is an outfit that makes computer peripherals, hard drives, disk burners, all wireless of course. Idea came from a fellow out of Stanford. That company is based in Mountain View.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Well, as I said, the one in Reno is just getting going, but advance orders are very strong. We’ll do very well on it. The company in Mountain View has stumbled, truth be told. It may go huge. Or we may lose a bundle. That’s the thing about VC. You don’t want to get into it unless you’ve got some extra room in your pocket book. Most of us in the group are in good enough shape that it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, it’s exciting. Thrill of the hunt and all.”

  I pulled out a card and handed it to him. “You said you’d like to help.”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Please keep your eyes open. Call me if anything comes up. Anything unusual or out of place.”

  “You can count on it.” He turned to Marlette and took her hand again. “And you call me, Marlette if you need anything. Again, you have my deepest sympathies. And I’m sure that Mr. McKenna will find your daughter.”

  FORTY

  When I got home there were no messages. I fished out the piece of paper Marlette had given me. She’d written down Michael Warner’s office address at Sac State and his home address in El Dorado Hills. Directory Assistance had his home listing. I called his office number just in case he was working late, got his voicemail again and left another message. Then I dialed his home number and got a machine. Maybe he went to bed early and let the machine pick up. I left another message and went to bed.

  I was sleeping and there was the strangest sounding bird outside in the dark and it wouldn’t let me sleep and then the bird got inside the bedroom and chirped louder and louder and then it morphed into the phone and I dropped it on the floor and then got it to my face. But it was turned around and I said hello into the earpiece.

  “Owen McKenna? Is this Owen McKenna?” a small tinny voice was buzzing near my lips.

  “Speaking,” I said when I finally had the phone re-oriented. The clock next to the bed said 6:00 a.m.

  “Sorry to call so early. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was at the meeting at Geoff Lambdon’s house? Pierson Giovanovich. You told us to look for anything that could possibly be connected to the kidnapped girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know if this is what you meant but we were out riding yesterday and overheard something rather strange. One thing led to another and, well, our dog found a large bone. My wife thinks it’s from a deer, but I was in Viet Nam and I saw some action and I’m not so sure.”

  “You think it’s human?”

  “I can’t say positively, but it looks enough like an arm bone that I am going to call the police. But because of the circumstances of how we found it, I thought I should alert you.”

  “Thank you. Where did you find it?”

  “You know where Kingsbury Grade drops down toward the lake from Daggett Pass? There’s a road that winds off the grade toward Castle Rock. Up in there.”

  “That’s in Douglas County,” I said. “I’ll call Sergeant Martinez of the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department, save you the trouble. Okay if we meet at your house?”

  I drove south on Highway 50 and met Pierson and his wife Myra at their house in Skyland, just a few blocks over from Geoff Lambdon’s house. It was still only 7:00 a.m. I knocked and Pierson came to the door and let me in.

  “Sorry again for getting you out so early, but I’ve got to take a deposition at nine o’clock and I thought you’d want to know about it as soon as possible. Is Sergeant Martinez coming as well?”

  “Yes. He lives down in Carson Valley. He’ll be here in another ten minutes or so.”

  “Shall we wait to explain until then? Have some coffee while we wait?”

  “Thank you. Black, please.”

  “Come with me,” Pierson said as he walked through the large great room that opened to a modern kitchen. He set a Lake Tahoe mug under a high-tech stainless steel brewer and pushed a button. “Grinds the beans and brews it all at the same time. One cup at a time.”

  The machine whirred and hissed and a thin stream of steaming foamy coffee filled the mug in thirty seconds. He handed it to me as his wife came in, carrying a tiny dog in her arms.

  “Owen, you remember Myra, and this is Peanut.”

  “Good to see you again, Myra. Hello, Peanut.”

  Myra said, “Peanut’s a Pekinese-Shih Tzu mix and she dragged that big bone out of the woods all by herself. Isn’t that right, little munchkin?” She kissed the dog and then rubbed its scalp so vigorously its head wobbled like a bobble-head toy.

  “The bone probably weighed more than she does,” Pierson said. He reached over toward his wife and duplicated her doggie head-rub, and I thought the dog must live with a constant migraine.

  We chatted a few minutes and drank our coffee and then Diamond arrived. After introductions we sat on leather chairs in the great room, and Pierson explained what happened.

  “You met our little group of riders at Geoff’s house. Only, yesterday none of them could go, so we went with our other friends, Bob and Judy Gannon. We like to do the loop where you go up the East Shore to Incline, over the Mt. Rose Highway and down to Reno, south to Carson City, then south on Jack’s Valley Road through Genoa and back up over Kingsbury Grade. We got up to the top of grade in the early afternoon and stopped for a refresher beer at that place on Tramway Drive.” Pierson turned to Diamond and grinned. “Don’t worry, sergeant, we always cut it off at an even half dozen when we’re riding.”

  Diamond nodded, a serious look on his face.

  “Anyway, there was a group at the bar talking about a big campout in Temple Gulch some time back. When did they say it was, Myra?”

  “I just remember that they were talking about going hiking during the full moon,” Myra said. “They said they went before the tourist season, but it had to be after the snow melted. The snow didn’t melt this year on upper Kingsbury until well into June, I think. And the heavy tourist season starts J
uly Fourth, so it would probably have been during the full moon in June.”

  “Right,” Pierson said. “So they said they were out hiking and saw thirty or forty bikers in there and they had a huge campfire and the smoke was drifting through the trees. They joked about what the bikers must have been cooking. Said it really stank. Anyway, I was curious about where Temple Gulch was because you can’t ride on most of the trails back in there. Not unless you have a dirtbike, anyway. I asked about it and they explained how you go up toward Castle Rock and watch for this trail that turns off up the mountain slope. It’s narrow and easy to miss, but it’s quite easy to drive it with a road bike, even though I think it’s supposed to be off-limits to motorized traffic.” He glanced at Diamond.

  “So we all thought, let’s give it a try. It took us a few wrong turns before we found the trail. But just like they said, it was easy to ride single file, and it wound way back along the side of the mountain. Then we came to what must be Temple Gulch. The rocks rise up on three sides and it’s a perfect large camping spot, sheltered from the wind and big enough for a huge party.

  “There’s a big firepit in the center and a smaller one off to one side. Somebody had left behind a lot of trash, beer cans and such. Maybe it had been there since June, who’s to know? Myra and I always carry extra plastic bags – isn’t that right, honey? – so we thought we’d do our good turn and we began to pick up the leftover trash. Meanwhile, Peanut here was running around exploring. Myra always wears this backpack that Peanut rides in. Peanut got away from us and we heard her barking off in the forest.”

  Myra added, “We were so worried about coyotes. Weren’t we, Peanut?” She rubbed the dog’s head again.

  Pierson said, “So we called her over and over, but she just kept barking. First it was far off, then she got closer. Eventually she came into the camp area dragging a large bone that was charred nearly black. To me it looks like a human arm bone. Poor little Peanut could barely carry it.”

  “Did you leave it there?” Diamond said.

  “No, I put it in one of our plastic bags and brought it home. It’s in the garage. Would you like to see it?”

  We said yes, and Pierson took us out to a garage that was much bigger than my cabin and picked up a bag that was lying on a workbench. He opened the bag and peeled it back so he could show us the bone without touching it. It was large and blackened with charcoal and looked to me like a humerus. The ball end looked intact while the elbow end was shattered off.

  Diamond said, “I’ll take it in. I’ll also need you to show me where your dog found it.”

  “Okay, but I’ll have to call my secretary and check my schedule. Give me a minute.”

  Pierson got on the phone while Myra took the dog outside.

  “What do you think?” Diamond said to me.

  I shrugged. “Who knows? Not too smart to leave a human bone lying in the woods. Will you let me know what you find?” I wanted to drive down to Sacramento and see if I could find Michael Warner.

  “Will do,” Diamond said.

  Pierson got off the phone. “I’m free after three. Does that work for you?”

  Diamond said that it did and they made plans to meet near the top of Kingsbury.

  “Do you have a bike?” Pierson said. “Because it’s too narrow for your cruiser and too far to easily walk.”

  “Ride on the back of yours?” Diamond said.

  “Works for me,” Pierson said.

  FORTY-ONE

  I went home and dialed the number of the Humboldt County deputy who’d given me some background on Antonio Gomez and his gang.

  “Deputy Randy Rasmussen,” a man said.

  “Hello. Owen McKenna calling from Lake Tahoe. We spoke a few days ago about...”

  “Sure, sure, Gomez and his gang. Anything happening on that?”

  “I’ve spoken with him and a couple of his boys, but we haven’t linked him to the kidnapping. However, I have a question about him. Any idea if he and his boys have been through Tahoe before?”

  “Of course. I told you about it the other day, didn’t I?”

  “Not that I recall,” I said.

  “No kidding? Christ, I just turned forty and I’m already losing it. Short-term memory is shot, long-term memory will be next. Yes, he and his crew were in Tahoe earlier this summer. I don’t have my notes, but I think it was June. Mitchell, my informant, told me that they planned to go back to Tahoe before they’d even left the first time.”

  “A repeat tourist is a good tourist,” I said.

  “What? Oh, right. Anyway, Mitchell is a fake name. Protect his identity.”

  “Got it. Does the gang do that often? Go back to the same places?”

  “Not too, from what I gather. Mitchell mentioned one other place. Up by Ashland, Oregon. And get this, he claimed that Gomez went to one of the plays at the Shakespeare Festival. How do you like that? A gang leader sitting through cultural stuff.”

  “Yeah, that’s something,” I said.

  I fed Spot some lunch, loaded him into the Jeep and headed out of the basin on Highway 50. Two hours later I was at Sacramento State University. I found a place to park half a mile away from the science building. Sacramento was cloaked in a heavy blanket of October clouds so I didn’t need to worry about Spot overheating. I cracked the windows and told him to be good.

  The building where Michael Warner had his office smelled like concrete and wooden pencils. There were four students shuffling down the hallway. None of them had pencils behind their ears, just the wires going to the iPods on their belts. No doubt listening to Quarks-On-Tape. Warner’s office door was shut. There was a piece of paper on the wall next to his door. It showed Warner’s regular office hours. According to the schedule, he was in. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I knocked. No answer.

  I went to the nearby offices. Three doors down a woman was in, her door open.

  “Excuse me. I was looking for Michael. He is supposed to have office hours now, but he seems to be out. Any idea where I might find him?”

  She shook her head and raised one eyebrow. “I’m sorry, we’re all wondering the same thing. Before he left he made it clear he’d be back last Monday. We put it on the schedule. But he didn’t show up and he hasn’t called. The dean told me she left a message and emailed him. But no response. Are you one of the parents?”

  “No, Michael and I are working on an extracurricular project together. I hope he’s okay.”

  “All we know is that something came up with some family member, and he said he’d be gone two weeks. Samantha Scola was able to take his classes the last two weeks, but she has another commitment this week so we had to cancel his classes yesterday and today. Hate to do that. I checked his horoscope. He’s a Gemini, you know. And do you know what it said? It said big changes are coming, not all of them good.”

  “Really,” I said. “Anyone else here who knows him well?”

  “The dean probably knows him best. Her name is Catherine Timmeron. They sometimes have lunch together. But she’s a Leo. So you can just imagine the implications. She’s left for the day. She’ll be back at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “May I have her number?”

  “Sure.” She opened a little plastic box, took out a card and handed it to me. “Maybe he’s at the emergency room as we speak,” she said. “You know how the stars work. Even for Geminis. For that matter, he could call the second you leave.”

  “No doubt,” I said. I thanked her and left.

  It took forty minutes to get back across town to where the freeway rose up into El Dorado Hills. I got out my map and figured out how to get to Warner’s house. Much of El Dorado Hills is comprised of recent subdivisions filled with large expensive homes. I couldn’t imagine an associate professor being able to afford to own even a fraction of one. Then my road took me into an older part of the area and I found Warner’s number on a dented mailbox that leaned at an angle next to a short dirt drive. It was a lonely setting in the country, with the closest hous
e a couple hundred feet down and across the road.

  Out front sat a 1970 Volvo wagon, rusted enough that I couldn’t tell if the original color was brown or dark red. Behind the car was a detached single car garage. Most of the paint had peeled off long ago. Like the mailbox, the garage also leaned and its roof was swaybacked. Behind the garage was a matching house, two bedrooms at most. It stood straight but had the same bare siding and swaybacked roof.

  I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again, louder. No sound of movement from inside. I walked around the house and found just one window without drapes.

  Cupping my hands next to my face revealed only a bare linoleum floor in an old kitchen.

  On one side of the house rose a steep wooded embankment. There was a field behind and to the other side of the house, and it stretched back to one of the new subdivisions. I could see why the owner of this rundown house didn’t fix it up. The lot was so valuable that whenever the house sold it would almost certainly be torn down to make way for a new palace.

  When I came back around the house, I knocked again, then tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  I walked across the road and down to the next closest driveway. It led to another old house, this one a Victorian in perfect repair. The filigree on the deck railings and along the eaves and under the gable trim had been painted in blues and turquoises.

  There was a Studebaker in the drive, its front wheels up on ramps, a mechanic’s legs protruding from under the engine.

  “Hello?” I called as I approached.

  The mechanic slid out on a dolly and sat up. She stood up, her baggy greasy jeans hanging loose on her slim frame. She had short hair lacquered up into a shiny flat-top. The short sleeves of her T-shirt were rolled up to her shoulders. In her right hand was a ratchet and socket. “What d’ya need?” she said.

  “I stopped by to see your neighbor Michael Warner, but he’s out. Car’s in the drive, but no answer at the door. He’s gone missing at school, too. I wonder if you’ve talked to him recently?”