Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14)

by Todd Borg

  I hung up and drove back toward Reno Armored. I wanted to talk to Randy Bosworth and see if I could shake any information about Rita or Kang out of him. I pulled back into the Reno Armored lot and parked. But the front door was still locked, and no one responded to my knocks. I walked around back and pounded on the garage doors, but got the same result. Maybe he’d already left to go visit his boss Mr. Timmens. Or maybe he was staying out of sight inside the building, plotting his revenge on me for revealing his behavior to his boss.

  THIRTY

  As I drove away from Reno Armored, I thought about the dead robbers. One was from Reno. The other was from Fallon, a town to the east.

  I pulled into a Home Depot parking lot, parked in the far corner, and called Sergeant Bains. He was out, but I left a voicemail. As I considered my next move, I saw a food truck at the curb. Unlike the popular new gourmet food trucks where one can buy barbecued, stuffed poblanos with scallions, spice-rubbed pork, and black rice, this truck just had the words ‘OLD-FASHIONED, FOOT-LONG HOTDOGS’ painted in bold red letters along the top of the truck. Written above the red letters was the word ‘ORGANIC’ in black script.

  I turned in my seat and said, “Hey, Largeness, what would you say to a foot-long hotdog?”

  Spot had been snoozing in the back seat. He lifted his head and looked at me with sleepy eyes.

  “It says ‘Organic,’ so that means it’s healthy. Probably has as many vitamins as broccoli? Are you game?”

  It could have been my enthusiasm, but probably it was the word broccoli. He got up fast, trying to stand on the back seat. Which meant his legs were bent, his backbone was pushed against the Jeep’s headliner, and his tail was on high speed, smacking the right, rear window. The excitement of a healthful lunch was manifest.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  Five minutes later, I returned with a fiberboard tray holding two beers and two foot-long hotdogs in toasted buns and drenched with bacon-mango salsa.

  I set the tray on the center of the hood. I lifted one hotdog out of its wrapper and set it on the hood just above the right headlight. I let Spot out of the back. He knew he couldn’t have any treat without permission, but he reached his nose over the headlight, toward the food, nostrils flexing, tail on slow speed, the sign, I’ve learned, of doggie self-hypnosis brought on by anticipation of Heaven. I opened the hotdog bun, letting the aromatic dog and salsa tempt the canine gods.

  Spot glanced up at me for a fraction of a moment, then looked back at the hotdog. His stare was so intense that if that hotdog tried to go anywhere, I knew there would be mayhem.

  “Ready,” I said.

  Twin streams of drool flowed from Spot’s jowls, landing on the Jeep’s hood.

  “Set,” I said.

  Spot tensed his legs, made a little jerk of anticipation, and the drool streams jiggled, tracing twin, liquid, calligraphic signatures, cursive for food passion.

  “Go.”

  He lunged. It was fast and probably painless for the hotdog. I know Spot bit down at least once, and he had to have swallowed at least once, unless he’d developed a new food-vac technique that I hadn’t yet witnessed. But I wouldn’t swear that there was more than one bite or swallow.

  Spot never let up focus. As he licked his chops, he transferred his laser gaze to the other hotdog in the center of the hood.

  “No, that one’s mine,” I said.

  Spot looked up at me for another moment then turned back to study the remaining hotdog. The drool had stopped, which was a clear signal that he understood the next hotdog wasn’t his. But his continuing focus showed that he hadn’t given up hope that I might change my mind.

  I was hungry as well. I picked up my hotdog and ate it fast. Spot watched me, maybe wondering how it could possibly take a human most of two minutes to eat a giant hotdog. He licked his chops again.

  I fetched the bowl I keep in the back of the Jeep and poured Spot’s beer into it. The Pet Police might disapprove, but I’d learned that a single beer for a 170-pound Great Dane was like a single beer for me. A taste, a tease, a hint of good things to possibly come. But nothing more.

  Spot lapped fast. I sipped mine. Spot got to the bottom of the bowl and proceeded to lick the metal down six or eight parking spaces before he decided he’d gotten every last drop.

  My phone rang.

  “Owen McKenna,” I answered.

  “Am I interrupting?” Sergeant Bains said.

  “No, perfect timing. Spot just finished his organic food-truck hotdog and beer, one of the many impressive offerings to be found in the lovely town of Sparks. Meanwhile, I’m taking my time with my lunch, lingering and savoring.”

  “I knew you were a man of delicate sensibilities,” Bains said. “You called.”

  “Yeah. Earlier, you said that one of our robber stiffs was from the Reno/Sparks area. So I thought maybe I could learn more about this guy. I could canvas the neighborhood. Visit the local bars. See what I can learn. It occurred to me that first I should see if you’ve learned anything useful.”

  “Actually, I have. In the wallet of Lucas Jordan, there was an old newspaper clipping with a photo of a football game. The caption said, ‘Big Bears receiver Lucas Jordan making the game-winning catch.’ It looks like Jordan was trying to preserve the memory of the biggest moment in his life. Anyway, I poked around and found out that the name of the football team at Wilson High School in Reno is The Big Bears.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Didn’t you say earlier that the vics were both about twenty-six years old?”

  “Right.”

  “So that would mean Jordan graduated about eight years ago.”

  “If he graduated.” Bains sounded derisive. “As you know, a lot of these kinds of guys are showing substantial skills if they learn how to dress themselves and pull a drive-by with a stolen piece.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Oh, one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “The sheen of oil on the spears?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wondered if we could find out what it was without waiting two weeks to get a lab test. So I asked this woman at the office who’s got a killer sniffer. You know, the kind who can smell a scent and say it’s a Lady Slipper orchid or the cleaning solution they use on the floor at the main Post Office in Bakersfield. So I had her sniff one of the poles and she said that she has an aluminum cookpot she sometimes uses for boiling pasta. But first, she puts olive oil in the pot. She said that’s what the spear smelled like.”

  “Olive oil,” I said.

  “Olive oil on aluminum,” is what she said. “The poles are aluminum, so I’m guessing she’s accurate.”

  “Good info,” I said. “I’ll keep my eye out for olive oil.”

  We said goodbye and hung up.

  I searched for Wilson High School on my new smart phone. When the website appeared on the screen, I felt very smart.

  From what I could tell, Reno’s Wilson High School had only a one-page website. At the top of the page it said,

  Wilson High School, Home of The Big Bears

  Where Excellence Is Our Business

  There was a picture showing studious-looking kids sitting in a circle on lush green grass, notebooks and textbooks on their laps. When I scrolled down, another picture showed a classroom with desks in perfect rows. The photo below that was at graduation, the students wearing pressed gowns. One of the students was giving a speech at the podium on the stage. Clearly, the excellence on display had not been sufficiently assimilated by Lucas Jordan the armored truck robber.

  Below the photos was the school’s address and phone number.

  I dialed the number. After a half dozen rings, a computerized voice told me I could leave a message after the beep. But no beep ever came. Eventually, I hung up.

  I found Wilson High School on the map, in an area that used to feature windowless buildings with neon signs advertising naked dancers. I knew th
at most of Reno’s few seedy neighborhoods had been gentrifying in the last couple of decades. Wilson High looked to be a centerpiece of the improvements, even if their phone system had some glitches.

  When I got to the Wilson High School neighborhood. I watched for the lush lawns and neat grounds featured on their website. Instead, I found a gray, featureless concrete block building in the center of a large expanse of crumbling asphalt with a broken spider web of weeds crisscrossing the area. The building had once been painted ivory, but most of the paint had peeled off. The walls were now covered with frenetic, aggressive graffiti that didn’t pause as it went from concrete to window glass and back to concrete. The entire school area was surrounded by chain link fence, broken here and there. At first, I assumed that the fence was to keep out any lowlifes who might be prowling the neighborhood. But when I took another look at the school, which looked less inviting than most prisons, I thought maybe the purpose of the fence was to keep people in.

  As I approached the entrance, I saw a police patrol unit parked next to the gate. A Reno cop was stopping each vehicle entering the school property.

  When I got to the cop, I rolled down the window.

  “Afternoon, officer,” I said as I showed him my license. “I’m Owen McKenna, in the employ of Reno Armored, looking to talk to school officials about one of the armored truck robbers who may have been a student here years back.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. This case is developing fast. We’ve got two bodies run through with spears and a killer who also has automatic weapons. I didn’t want to take the time to set up appointments.”

  He frowned, thinking, then looked into the backseat at Spot, who was sprawled from left armrest to right armrest, snoring. “This your K-nine patrol unit?”

  “Kinda,” I said. “He’s not certified, but he can devour a hotdog with the best of the professional dogs.”

  “That’s a joke,” the cop said, his face very serious. “Funny,” he added, his frown intense. “The administration lot is on the east side of the building,” he said. He handed me a blue placard. “Put this on your dash and park in the visitor’s section.”

  “Are you here for a special event?” I asked.

  “According to Wilson High officials, every day is a potential special event. So the school board put it in the budget to have an off-duty cop at the gate every day.”

  “Anything special happen today?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I put the plastic sheet on my dash, drove away, and parked where he said.

  The nearby door was a single glass panel with vinyl letters that said ‘Wilson High Administration.’ It too was covered in graffiti. I pulled it open and walked into a passage that smelled like Margaritas mixed with sweat. There was a sign that hung down from the ceiling. It said ‘Information.’ To the side was a counter. Behind the counter, a short woman with bright red hair pulled back into a bun worked at a computer.

  I walked up and gave her my most charismatic smile.

  She immediately looked happy. Charisma rules.

  As with the cop at the gate, I pulled out my license and gave her a short elevator pitch about a man named Lucas Jordan who was of interest in a crime I was working on, and I explained that he may have been a past student. I left out any mention of robbery or bodies.

  I said, “I’d like to look at the school records for the student in question. He would have graduated about eight years ago,” I said.

  She made a little nod. Then a phone rang. A buzzer buzzed. She looked away from me and picked up the phone.

  “This is Cheryl,” she said.

  A tinny voice came through the speaker, loud enough that I could hear the tension.

  “Oh, no,” Cheryl said.

  The tin voice continued.

  “It just happened?! Oh, no,” Cheryl said again. Then, “What should I do?”

  I listened as someone yelled or berated or pleaded. I couldn’t tell which.

  Cheryl hung up. Her face had paled.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t.

  “We’ve just had a bomb threat,” she said. “We’re going on lockdown.” Cheryl looked scared. “I don’t even know what that means, lockdown. I’m new on this job.” Her voice quivered, and her eyes did a fast, imploring search of mine.

  In my most reassuring voice, I said, “Not to worry. This isn’t unusual for some schools. You can provide valuable documentation. What you should do is stay at your post, stay calm, and make notes of what happens. Who comes in, who goes out, what time it is. What people say. Anything else that happens. You’ll be responsible for documenting the events as they happen. Does that make sense?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I’m scared.”

  I reached over the counter and patted the back of her hand. “You’ll be a huge help,” I said as I turned and left.

  When I got out the Administration door, I used a fast-casual walk to hustle out to the Jeep in a manner that wouldn’t look strange on the security cameras. I got in, started the engine, and again drove away at a fast-casual speed. They might make notes about the private investigator whose timing coincided with the bomb threat, but I didn’t want to become an object of special attention. Nor did I want to be stuck at the school for five hours while the Reno cops went through their laborious interviews with everyone before letting them leave.

  When I got to the gate, the cop had left his post and was over looking through the window of a parked Chevy Malibu. He was talking on his radio and looked stressed. Then he turned to look out at the street as he talked, looking east, then west, rising up on tiptoes, leaning his head sideways to get a better view. I gave him a short wave, coasted out the gate, and drove away.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I headed toward downtown and turned into the parking lot at the main library. Inside the library, I found another information desk, this one staffed by a young man who wore black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt with the buttons buttoned all the way up to his collar. He had a chubby neck to match his chubby body, and as the tight collar edge pressed into his neck flesh, I wondered if he was getting enough oxygen.

  “Any chance you keep yearbooks of high schools in Reno?” I said.

  “Well, of course,” he said in a haughty tone as if to suggest that I was a fool to consider that it might not be so. “I can think of lots of them off the top of my head. Damonte Ranch, North Valleys, Wooster, Galena, Spanish Springs, Reno High, Washoe Wolf, and others.” He paused.

  “Wilson High?” I asked.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Well, that’s more of a maybe,” he said. “Are you a Wilson High alumnus?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well you should know that Wilson has problems to say the least.” He rolled his eyes. “In the last ten years, they’ve only done three or four yearbooks. They’re the black sheep of Reno Sparks schools. Of course, I went to one of our finer schools, so I know what those poor students are missing. I suppose they do as well as they can with such limited resources, both financial and intellectual. For most schools, doing a yearbook every year is standard stuff. Get a group of kids together to play with Adobe Illustrator, and out comes a yearbook. But at Wilson High, trying to find a group of kids who are computer-fluent enough to produce a yearbook is pretty much out of their league. For all I know, they might not even have a computer with a graphics program. Just my take, of course.”

  “Can I look at what you have?” I said.

  He nodded and came out from around the counter.

  I followed him as he walked down the stacks. He made a left turn, then a right, moving with incisive purpose and obvious skill, paused, his forefinger out, tracing the spines of books, his hand position just so. He moved a yard to the side, scanned the shelves, moved another foot, then said, “Here we are. Five books. One, two, three, four, five. Wilson High’s total yearbook production from the last – let’s see – twenty years. Are you looking for a particular year
?”

  “About eight years ago,” I said.

  The young man touched a book, turned his head as if to see the spine better in the dim light, then pulled out a volume. “This one is nine years ago. That’s the closest we have. I don’t know for certain, but it appears that Wilson High didn’t produce a yearbook for the year you want.”

  I took the volume from him. “Thanks. I’d like to look this one over, if I may.”

  He pointed to the big library tables. “Have at it,” he said.

  I walked over, sat down, and opened the book. Maybe Wilson High wasn’t producing gold-embossed volumes to make the alumni proud, but the book did the job. It had all the usual features, articles on the year’s great moments, pictures of the kings and queens and princes and princesses of the various festivals, and photos of the football players and other sports jocks.

  I turned to the pages where all, or at least many, of the students had provided their picture along with their name and nickname and membership in sports and clubs. Because this book was a year before the time the robber would have likely finished school, I turned to the pages that showed the students who were juniors.

  I pulled out the slip of paper on which I’d written the robber’s names. I flipped through the book to the Js. Lucas Jordan was partway down the page. He had short brown hair, swept up and cut in a flat top like from the 1950s. He wore a sweatshirt with a camouflage pattern. Unlike the other students in the yearbook, Lucas wasn’t smiling. He looked angry and mean. Maybe his juvenile parole officer required him to sit for the class picture. Under Lucas Jordan’s photo, where most of the students listed sports and clubs and favorite activities that they participated in, it said ‘Hunting’ and ‘Target Practice.’

  A high school photo is hard to connect to a murder victim nine years later, especially one whose eyes had been eaten by crows, but I guessed that Lucas Jordan was the man I’d found at the home plate position on the tree island near Baldwin Beach.

  I turned more pages in the yearbook and, as I suspected, came to the other victim.