by Todd Borg
“You’re not worthless, Douglas. You’re in shock. You will probably think of things at a later time.”
“What happens next?”
“California law requires an autopsy. The results will give us an idea of how to look for her killer.”
Fairbanks seemed distracted by a thought. “Isadore wasn’t a large woman, but she was strong. She would have put up a good fight. How would someone hang her by her ankles? That would take a great deal of strength.”
“That’s a good question. Maybe there were two or three men who lifted her up and tied her in place. Did Isadore ever talk about rock climbing? Or camping or mountaineering?”
“No, why?”
“Because she was tied up with paracord,” I said. “It’s a thin kind of line that sportsmen use for a variety of purposes.”
“It doesn’t sound familiar,” Fairbanks said. “The Isadore I knew was a sophisticated woman. I’d guess she was urban to the core. I just assumed she lived in a good-sized city, ate at nice restaurants. I can’t make a picture of Isadore camping or rock climbing. Except for her bicycling clothes, her other clothes were all what she’d wear in the city, not in the forest.”
“I want you to think about those places where you remember people recognizing Isadore. Those places were in Tahoe, right?”
“Yes. Isadore and I first met in Tahoe, and every time we’ve met since was in Tahoe. Tahoe was our thing. On our second or third meeting, I said she could stay at my condo. I even gave her a key. The only places where we went where she bumped into people she knew were in Tahoe. Restaurants and such. I’ll try to remember where.”
“Go to those places. Try to find people who knew her. If so, get their names and contact info.”
Fairbanks nodded.
“How did you and Isadore contact each other?”
“We had each other’s cell phone numbers and email.”
“May I have hers?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ll write them down.”
He got a little pad of paper, wrote, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me.
The email address was a Yahoo account, which would be very difficult to access.
“I see that the area code for the phone number is from the Bay Area,” I said.
Fairbanks nodded. “I sort of casually asked her about that because, of course, I was curious. She said that she often did business in the Bay Area, so it helped her to have a number that connected her to the Bay Area. When she told me, she seemed to take care that I not assume she lived there. Although that’s what I thought, anyway.”
“Did she know you lived in Las Vegas?”
“Yes,” Fairbanks said. “I told her I was an insurance broker there. That was another one of those times when I sensed that she didn’t want to know my personal information. It was like she wanted me to be her vacation friend, and it would be special because we wouldn’t let the rest of our worlds enter into our magic vacation world. So other than explaining to her about my open marriage, I never brought up my other life again.”
We sat in silence for a bit.
“Will you continue to look into this?” Fairbanks said. “I’ll pay whatever you charge. I want you to find her killer. I need you to find her killer.”
“Yes, I will.” I paused, thinking. “I wonder if you have a piece of Isadore’s clothing.”
Fairbanks frowned. “What for?”
“I’d like to do a search of Fannette Island.”
He stared at me. “Oh, you mean, you want one of those search and rescue dogs to smell Isadore’s clothes and then look for anything with her scent on the island.”
“Right.”
“Do you know someone who has such a dog?”
“Yes, but I was thinking of using my dog.”
Fairbanks looked at Spot, then back at me. Spot watched his eyes, then turned to look at me, too.
“Is he, you know, trained at how to search?”
“Sort of. He’s not a professional. But he makes up for his amateur status with enthusiasm.”
Fairbanks turned back to Spot. He leaned forward and pet him, both of his hands going down the sides of Spot’s neck. “Can you find out what happened to my girl, Spot? Can you?” Fairbanks turned to me. “You wanted some of her clothes. I’ll go get her bag.”
“First, get a large zipper-type food bag if you have one. Open it wide, take it into the bedroom where she stayed, and then put an item of her clothing into it without letting it touch the outside of the bag. The clothing can’t be fresh out of the wash. It needs to be something she’s already worn. A dirty T-shirt. Or a hat or scarf that she’s had on her head is even better. When you’ve done that, wash your hands and then come back out and stay with my hound. I’ll go in and seal up the bag.”
“I get it,” he said. “You want to make it so that when you open the bag and let him sniff the clothing, it will be a new scent.”
“Yes. He already knows her scent just being here in your condo. But when I pull her clothing out of the bag, it will give him a clear idea of what scent to look for.”
Fairbanks stood and went to the kitchen. He opened a drawer, removed a bag from a dispenser box, and then went down to one of the bedrooms. He moved fast and with purpose as if I’d given him the relief of focusing on doing something useful.
In time he reappeared. “I found her pajama top. Will that work?”
“Yes. Perfect. Pet my dog while I go seal the bag.”
He did as requested.
I walked into the bedroom. The open food-storage bag was sitting on the bed. In it was a pink, flannel top. I squeezed the air out of the bag, sealed the seam, and brought it out.
“Thanks. I’ll take Spot out to the island and see what I can find.”
“Will you let me know? Will you keep me informed of your investigation?” Fairbanks’s voice was high and tentative and strangely hopeful. His love was dead, and he would be shaken to the core about it for months to come. But at this moment he was hopeful that I might find her killer.
“Yes, I’ll keep you up to date.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much. Let me get you a check. I want to hire you for as long as it takes to solve this.”
I gave him a substantial figure.
Fairbanks pulled a check book from a kitchen drawer, wrote me a check, and handed it to me.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said.
Spot and I left Fairbanks standing at the door, his eyes red and swollen, his worry and pain greater than anything a person should have to confront.
On our way out, two guys were coming into the condo building. They saw Spot and held back. One guy was tall and had a stringy goatee. The other guy was short and clean-shaven and had a flat top greased up firm and shiny.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Don’t worry, my dog is friendly.” I held Spot by the collar so the men wouldn’t be nervous. “Do you guys live here?”
The greased, flat-top, shorter guy looked up at the taller guy.
“I do,” the taller guy said. His goatee wiggled a bit.
“I’d like to ask you a question, please. I was just talking to your neighbor Douglas Fairbanks. His friend Isadore went missing two days ago and he’s asked me to help. I’m a private investigator.” I handed him my card. “Does either of you know her?”
The taller guy said, “I don’t really know her, but I met her at a party Fairbanks had a long time ago. We didn’t talk more than How-do-you-do. But I’ve seen her with Fairbanks since then. Is she in trouble?”
“Just missing,” I said. “Can you tell me what you remember about her?”
“Well, Isadore’s…” He paused.
I waited.
“It’s just that anyone would remember her. She’s pretty much a ten on the hottie scale.” He made a quick glance at the shorter guy. “Fairbanks is a lucky guy.”
“Did you ever get a sense that anyone didn’t like her? At the party? Or since then?”
He frowned. “No. She’s real… what’s the word. Vi
vacious. Fun to be around. I think everyone probably likes her. Except maybe other girls. Or men who put the make on her and got slapped down.” He made another glance toward the shorter guy.
“Do you know anyone who’s a friend of hers?”
“Other than Fairbanks? No. I don’t think locals in Tahoe would know her. She’s from out of town. She sort of radiates tourist, if you know what I mean. Although, I’ve seen her staying at Fairbanks’s place a few times. So the tourist thing is probably rubbing off.”
“May I contact you if I have further questions?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m the manager at the Mountain Street Grill over in Zephyr Cove. The easiest way to reach me is to call there and leave a message on my voicemail. My name’s Kendall Martini, just like the drink.”
I wrote it down. “What about your home phone?”
“I don’t really have one. I have a cell, but I’m like the only guy in my generation who doesn’t live on that thing. I turn it on when I’m expecting something I care about. The rest of the time, it’s turned off. Nothing worse than linking turns in the deep pow and getting texts on your phone. Besides, the companies are always tracking everything we do, and I like to keep a low profile.”
“Right.” I turned to the shorter man. “What about you? Do you have any impression of Isadore?”
“Sorry, man. I have no idea who that is.”
I held his eyes for a bit, wondering if he was telling the truth. From Kendall’s statement, I would guess that he’d have told his friends about his sometime neighbor who was a hottie.
The shorter man didn’t waver.
“Okay. Thanks much.” Spot and I left.
TEN
I called Sergeant Bains of El Dorado County.
“Any chance you did a canine search on Fannette Island?” I asked when he answered.
“No. What would we expect to find? We have a victim and the means of murder. We did a grid search. There was nothing else but rock and trees. The murderer left no trace.”
“I don’t expect there is anything in particular to find. But you never know what a dog will turn up. Would you mind if I took my dog out there?”
Bains paused before he answered. “I remember when you had Ellie Ibsen and her professional avalanche dog search the slide at Emerald Bay. Your dog mostly watched the other dog, as if wondering how in the heck did he do it.”
“Right. I could see if Ellie has an available dog. But right now, Spot’s the only dog I have. Mind if I have him search?”
“Not at all. You probably know that it’s against the law to bring dogs to Fannette Island.”
“I thought about that. So as a scofflaw, I might try not to get caught. But I could also invoke your name, which, last I heard, is respected in some circles.”
“The circles of perps I’ve put in jail,” Bains said. “Sure bring your dog. Call me and tell me if you find anything.”
“Will do.”
I next called Diamond. When he answered his phone, I said, “Hey, I was thinking about when we paddled that canoe out to the anchored boats to try and find Evan Rosen and her sister Mia.”
“What’s it been,” Diamond said, “two weeks? Caught that sick bastard with the murder weapon in his hand.”
“Yeah. Your paddling energy was impressive. Yet somehow I got the idea that you’d never paddled a canoe before.”
“That is correct,” Diamond said. “First time for me. Maybe the last. Those things are tippy as a kayak. But they ride higher in the water than a kayak, so it seems they have an even greater chance of overturning. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have a vision of a canoe hanging up under the rafters in your garage. A red one, I think.”
“Sí. Good memory. The canoe came with the place when I bought it. And my Green Flame Karmann Ghia is short enough that I can park it underneath the canoe.”
“Are you saying you own a canoe but have never used it?”
“Sí again.”
“Do you know if it floats?” I said.
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried to float it. Why would I? Anyway, it doesn’t have any obvious holes, so it probably floats.”
“Does that mean I can borrow it?”
“My unused canoe? Help yourself. What’s your plan?”
“I told you about the potential client whose girlfriend went missing. Her body was found on Fannette Island.”
“And you want to go out there. But why go to the trouble to come down to Minden and borrow my canoe? You could rent a powerboat and make it easy.”
“I don’t think they’re allowed to pull up at the island. We’d have to drop anchor and swim in.”
“Which would be seriously cold this time of year,” he said.
“No kidding. Water doesn’t come colder than snowmelt.”
I thanked Diamond and then called Street.
“I’ve been doing a little self-defense practice,” she said when she heard my voice. “I don’t think I’m getting the moves right, but I can tell it’s getting me conditioned to the possibility of assault. I’ll be better able to react in the right way if it happens.”
“That’s good. Practice produces the defense pattern.”
“Learn anything new about the body they found?”
“Not yet. Douglas Fairbanks gave me a piece of her clothing. I’m going to take Spot out to the island and have him search on the woman’s scent. Would you and Blondie like to come? I’ll get Diamond’s canoe this afternoon and paddle out tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll join you.”
ELEVEN
S pot and I headed up and over Kingsbury Grade. We dropped down 3000 feet and pulled up to Diamond’s house just off the town square in Minden, one of the old ranching towns in Carson Valley, and the headquarters for the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office, where Diamond was a sergeant.
Diamond was gone, so Spot and I walked down the narrow drive alongside the old clapboard house that Diamond kept in spotless condition. Diamond’s backyard was also neat and clean and recently mowed. The little old garage was a bit sway-backed across its roof line, but the siding was freshly painted white, the trim a shiny forest green enamel, and the little window panes were so clear I wondered if they’d been washed that morning.
I let myself into the unlocked garage. Spot pushed in past me, his nose high, air scenting, teasing out hints of all activity during the past few months, whether the smells were of small furry critters or gas for the lawn mower, or fertilizer for the grass or light oil lubrication for Diamond’s many tools in the rolling Craftsman carts that organized and housed them.
Diamond’s Karmann Ghia, the Green Flame, was parked beneath the hanging canoe.
I found a small step ladder and used it to reach up and unhook the straps that cradled the canoe’s hull and hung it from rafter hooks. Lifting up, the canoe seemed lighter than I expected. I took it down, careful not to bounce it on the old classic car, carried it outside, and set it on the grass.
The canoe was a red Old Town, one of the short models, just 14 feet long, with one large space between the seats. There were two seat cushions at one end. Tied to one of the support thwarts that gave strength to the canoe were two dusty flotation vests. Wedged from the seats to the thwarts were two wooden paddles. Spot looked at the canoe, then looked up at me, his brow furrowed with question.
“Yes, boy, you get to go on another boat ride.”
I found shock cords and nylon rope in Diamond’s garage and used them to tie the canoe to the Jeep’s roof rack.
Three hours later, I’d brought Diamond’s canoe to the boat inspection station for invasive species and gotten my approval.
The next morning, the newspaper had a big headline about the murder on Fannette Island. Below it was a picture of the victim. The photograph looked like a telephoto shot taken from a boat some distance from the island. The photo was small, grainy, and dark. I guessed that the paper had reduced the photo’s resolution and printed it small to make it seem less sensational. But
the photo showed a vague image of the victim hanging upside down.
The story accompanying the photo was short.
Murder Victim Found At Fannette Island
The El Dorado Sheriff’s Office has confirmed that a body was found hanging from the tea house at the top of Fannette Island yesterday morning. Although foul play was involved, cause of death has not been established. No further information has been released.
I thought about the murder. Maybe the killer had strung his victim up as punishment for terrible deeds, real or imagined. Maybe he realized that hanging a person in one of the most photographed spots on the planet would mean that the press would be eager to print the story and spread it across the country. It could be that the whole point of the murder method was to display the body for the world to see.
I set aside the paper, turned on my laptop, and went to the Google News web page. The story was at the top. Multiple national news sites had picked it up, printed the picture, and written about the situation, focusing on the salacious aspects of a woman in a skirt hanging upside down.
Why display a dead body? There could be several reasons. It might be a taunt. Hey, everybody, check out how I can string someone up, and you can’t find me. Or it could be a puzzle. Try to figure out why I did it. Try to guess if I will do it again.
I grabbed Isadore’s pajama shirt, and Spot and I got in the Jeep and headed down to pick up Street and Blondie.
Street had packed a lunch in a cooler.
We drove around the South Shore, headed out past Camp Rich, and turned into the road to Kiva Beach, one of the few beaches on Tahoe that allows dogs.
Because it was June, the summer tourist season hadn’t yet begun. So there were several parking spaces. I pulled the flotation vests out of the back of the Jeep and handed one to Street.
She held it up, gave it a shake. “An archive of Carson Valley insect history is stored in these spider webs,” she said, wiping at the gossamer threads. She plucked something very small from the detritus, held it up to the sunlight and looked at it. “An intact pupa case. Something prevented this poor guy from emerging from his post-larval nap and transformation. Now his remains are desiccated within the case.”
