by Todd Borg
“You didn’t know Smithson was the man you met in the woods?” Street asked as we drove away.
“I was as surprised as he was.” My clothes had dried somewhat, but swimming pool moisture was seeping from my clothes into the car seat. Spot stuck his head over the front seat and sniffed at the mixture of chlorine and wet seat fabric.
“Are you sure he was following Jennifer that day?” she asked.
“Either Jennifer or the other bicyclist who turned into the woods shortly after Jennifer did. At the time I thought maybe he recognized the other bicyclist and was chasing after him. Now I wonder. I start investigating the death of Melissa Salazar and Smithson comes into the picture two different times. Kind of suggests he’s involved in some way.” I reached the end of Lakeshore Drive and turned south onto the shoreline highway.
“But if there is a connection between Melissa’s death and the death of Penelope Smithson,” Street said, “it would seem to be a very loose one. Smithson’s wife died on the opposite side of the lake.”
“I agree. On the other hand, if there is no connection then his double appearance is a big coincidence. Detectives aren’t supposed to abide coincidences.”
Street tapped her chin with her forefinger. “One time I was getting some bar soap out of the cabinet in my bathroom and I saw an unusual insect. It was iridescent green. It looked like a six-spotted green tiger beetle except that they don’t live in Tahoe. I tried to catch it, but it got away. I remembered it clearly because except for spiders, I hadn’t seen any bugs in my condo in a long time. Later I saw the same iridescent beetle in the hall closet. Same puzzle, really. Was it an unlikely coincidence? Or was there a connection between the two places? I eventually found out that I also had soap in the hall closet. It turned out the beetle was digging in the soap.”
“If the analogy holds,” I said, “then Melissa’s death and Penelope Smithson’s death are likely to be connected in some unforeseen way. The soap connection.”
“Exactly,” Street said. “In this case, John-the-body-Smithson is the unusual insect turning up in strange places. We just have to figure out what the connection is.”
“John-the-body?” I said. I took my eyes off the road and frowned at her.
Street giggled. “Well, he does have a body.”
“I’ll give him that. But he’s an Ode to the Steroid gods. He genuflects before the barbell. He’s got more beef than a Black Angus bull. He’s...”
“Easy, boy, easy!” Street slugged my shoulder. “I was kidding. You’ve got a body, too.”
“You noticed.”
“I do. Other women notice, too.” She reached over and ran her hand over me, exploring.
“Street, I’m trying to drive.”
“I’m not stopping you.” She untucked my shirt.
“Street, what if other people see?”
“They won’t.”
I swerved a little. “Spot’s watching us,” I said.
“He’s watched before.”
FIFTEEN