by Todd Borg
“Got it.”
“Did you interview the neighbors?” I asked.
“Yeah. I sent two deputies through the neighborhood two different times. No hits, no runs.”
“They find anybody home?”
“A geeky kid named Dwight Frankman and a tatted-up playboy named Michael Paul. Paul claimed to be gone when Mrs. Rorvik went over the railing. Frankman claimed to be home watching a DVD of – get this – a nano-modeling lecture.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“Do you?” Bains asked.
“After meeting him, probably. You have Ned’s address?”
“Gimme a sec.” The phone was silent for half a minute. “Got a pen?” Bains said. Then he read off the address. “You going to pay him a visit?”
“Yeah. I’ll let you know if I find out anything illuminating.”
“Illuminating,” Bains said. “I love the way you private detectives speak. Does that come from wine? That’s probably the biggest difference between you and me. Maybe I should learn to drink that stuff.”
“But I’m working,” I said. “I would never drink wine while I’m working.”
We said goodbye, and I drank the rest of my beer.
TEN
The next morning, I called Street Casey.
“Early in the morning for you to call,” she said.
“Never too early to ask you out on a date.”
“A date? That takes your wanna-do-cheeseburgers-tonight-routine to a new level,” she said. “Do you have a time in mind?”
“Tonight?” I said. “I could tell you about my new case.”
“Impress the girl with your detecting skills?” Street said.
“Yeah.”
“You detected something? Wow.”
“Well, not yet, but I will eventually.”
I gave her a summary about Joe and Rell Rorvik.
“I’ll have to let you know about tonight,” she said. “I have a lot of work piled up. Can I call you back this afternoon?”
“Sure.”
Spot and I left early and drove back to the South Shore. I wanted to have a chance to see Nedham Theodore Cavett’s pickup before he went off to work at the auto parts store that Sergeant Bains mentioned. If I got familiar with his truck, I’d be able to identify him from a distance.
Because the snow had stopped for a moment, I rolled down one of the rear windows. Spot had his head out the window, tongue dangling in a heavy pant in spite of the winter weather. Judging by his focused attention, the snow-covered world from a moving Jeep was utterly captivating.
I glanced at the address Bains had given me and turned down the street. Many of the house numbers were not obvious, but Ned Cavett’s pickup might be visible. It could be in a garage, but if it stood as tall as Rorvik had described, it would probably only fit in an RV garage. Chances are it was parked outside.
After several blocks I came to a small cabin with a steep-sloping, green metal roof. The cabin had a small wrap-around porch and what looked like a single upstairs bedroom with a ceiling that angled four ways.
Parked in the street, its front wheels high up on jack stands, was a brilliant yellow pickup, a Chevy from the middle ’70s. The truck was missing a grill and front bumper. Parked at such a steep angle, it looked vaguely like a huge, chinless, tropical fish.
To one side of the cabin was a newer double garage nearly as big as the cabin itself. The garage probably qualified as detached, but it looked like the door at the rear corner met up with the front corner of the cabin. In front of the garage was an older model Toyota Corolla with a dusting of snow on it.
The garage door was up, revealing the standard detritus that collects in garages along with several pairs of skis and one unusual item. At the back of the garage was a half-sheet of plywood mounted on the wall. Laminated on the plywood was a circular bulls-eye pattern. In the center of the bulls-eye was a square piece of paper on which was written the name of a famous politician. Sticking out of the politician’s name were eight or ten throwing knives.
I parked in front of the yellow truck, walked up to the door and knocked.
Noises like bear grunts came from inside. The door jerked opened. Revealed in a sleeveless shirt, Ned was as advertised, mid-30s, muscular, and beyond ordinary handsome. With a modicum of skills and attitude, he could have been an A-list movie star.
“Wha’dya want,” he said, no doubt recognizing me from his Rorvik spy mission but not wanting to reveal to me that he was the spy. Even his voice was rich with depth. I could visualize him yelling, ‘Stella!’ in Streetcar.
“Looking for Simone Bonnaire,” I said.
“She’s not in,” he said. “Wha’dya want with her, anyway?”
“Just talk.”
“What about?” His voice hissed with anger, and he smelled like old meat and stale beer.
“That’s between her and me,” I said.
He stepped forward, his face in mine. He was almost as tall as me and a bit heavier.
“I don’t like a smartass,” he hissed. “And no one talks to Simone without me there,” he said. “Understand?”
“Sure, pal.” I turned to leave.
“Be careful you don’t bump my truck when you pull away.”
“That yours?” I said pointing. “Nice paint job.”
He softened. “I know some guys with a shop in Carson City. This is a new color they’re working on.”
“Looks like a tropical fish,” I said. “Or daffodils.”
I glanced at him. Ned was pink, on the way to crimson.
“Hey, you weren’t up at Angora Highlands yesterday, were you?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned into the house and slammed the door behind him.
I saw movement over by the garage. A tiny woman was brushing snow off the old Toyota. I walked past my Jeep where Spot still had his head hanging out. I gave him a quick rub, then continued on past the fish truck to the garage. The woman was as skinny as she was short. As Joe said, she looked too meek to do anything on skis other than shuffle along.
She wouldn’t even look at me.
“Simone?” I said. “I’m Owen McKenna. I’m a private investigator looking into Rell Rorvik’s fall from her deck. You probably know that she is now in a coma at a Reno hospital. Her husband Joe tells me that you were her friend.”
Simone glanced up for a brief moment, then looked down. Her head movement was just enough for me to see the bruise on the lower edge of her jaw, an ugly purple smudge that reached back toward her ear.
“I wonder if I may ask you some questions about Rell?”
She shook her head with a kind of desperate fear.
“No. Go away!” she said. She spoke in a harsh whisper with a hint of French accent, but her voice was so soft that I could barely hear her words.
The inner door of the garage opened. Ned rushed out into the garage, took fast steps to Simone, and grabbed her by the upper arm in a grip that might break bones.
Simone shrieked.
“You will never talk to this man, you understand?” he yelled.
Simone’s face was filled with pain as the man lifted up on her arm, wrenching her shoulder joint.
It took great self-control to keep from jumping him. But I was in his garage. Unless Simone requested help, I was on bad legal ground.
“I can stop him,” I said to Simone. “You want me to stop him? All you have to do is nod.”
She shook her head, frantic, panicked. I understood the reaction. Despite her current pain and humiliation, if I got involved, she would suffer a future beating much worse.
Ned had something like flames in his eyes as he stared at me. If he hadn’t been holding Simone by her arm, he probably would have charged me.
Ned dragged Simone into the house and slammed the garage side door just as he had with the front door. I heard him yelling. Simone screamed. I felt pushed to the point of explosion. Her scream was right on the edge of the legal footing n
ecessary to go in on a no-knock entry to save her.
But I knew what would happen. She’d have another bad bruise but no broken bones. I’d be charged with a home invasion at the least and get shot to death at the worst.
Fearing for her life, Simone would refuse to testify.
Without her testimony, the jury would convict me. I might be sentenced to prison, while Simone would continue to face continuous beatings until she either died from her injuries or summoned the wherewithal to kill her tormentor. If instead she finally decided to leave him and get a restraining order, he would, likely as not, kill her. I’d seen it too many times to hope for any other result.
The current laws are insufficient to protect battered women. And there was no way I could help Simone unless I was fortunate enough to catch him beating her out in public. Only then could I intervene in any meaningful way. Unfortunately, the cowards who prey on women and children do it in the privacy of their homes where the man’s-home-is-his-castle laws help perpetuate the torture.
I drove away, my heart pounding, blood pressure threatening to blow a pipe in my brain.
ELEVEN
To try to calm down, I drove to my office. I sat in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, breathing hard. Gradually, I focused on other things.
I let Spot out of the Jeep, and we went under the scaffolding to the front entry. I stepped on something hard. It was a rusty bolt. As I picked it up, I saw another one a few feet away. I picked that one up as well and in the process noticed two more bolts some distance away.
Looking up, I saw two men on the scaffolding boards about twenty feet up. “Hey guys, looks like someone dropped a bag of bolts. I’ll set them here by the door.”
“Okay, thanks,” one of them called down.
Spot and I walked up the stairs to my office. I checked the phone machine for messages. No blinking light. I turned on the computer and checked for email. There wasn’t even any spam. I checked the floor near the door in case someone had slipped a lavender-scented note under the door. There was nothing, reminding me once again that, except for the lavender, other people get all this stuff remotely on their smart phones. Maybe the lavender, too. But I was suspicious of smart phones’ tendency to use up what little spare time people had left. Thus, I was the world’s slowest technology adopter.
Spot looked around and, like me, also found nothing. He lay down in the exact same place as during our last visit. Sighed. Flopped down onto his side. Appeared to go to sleep.
I didn’t know Street Casey’s schedule, so I called her cell.
“Hello?” she answered, the warm harmonics of her voice ratcheting up my heart rate a notch.
“Street, my sweet,” I said. “I came to my office and there were no messages from you. I was hoping for a lavender-scented note. I’m distraught.”
“Sorry. I remembered your date request, but I’ve had no time to call.”
“What do you recommend?” I asked.
“Well, one option would be to go down the hall to the restroom and take a nose-hit on the liquid soap. It’s not lavender, but with your aroma detection skills, you probably won’t notice the difference.”
“What are my other options?”
“Go home and take a cold shower?” Street suggested.
“How about the option where we have wine and an early dinner followed by post-prandial exercise?”
“Oh, that option. How did I forget? A restaurant date would probably run too late for me. Maybe you should just come to my place. I’ll cook.”
“And you’ll be my after-dinner entertainment,” I said. “My kind of date.”
I called Joe Rorvik and asked if I could stop by. He said yes.
Spot and I were up at Angora Highlands a half-hour later. Spot was excited to come back to Joe’s expansive and fancy home. Probably the granite counters.
Joe tried to be pleasant, but I could see that he’d had a hard night. The circles under his eyes were deep and dark.
When we were sitting in his living room with Spot prostrate at Joe’s feet, I said, “I’m not certain, but I think that the person watching from the woods yesterday was Simone Bonnaire’s boyfriend, Ned Cavett. You’ve already stated that you don’t think he tried to murder Rell because you felt he would have smacked her around as punishment, and the doctors found no such bruises. I’m inclined to agree because I met Cavett this morning and witnessed his sadistic abuse toward Simone.”
“Did you teach him a lesson?” I was pleased to hear a little venom in Joe’s voice. Passion of any flavor is an antidote to old age.
“I wanted to, but he’s clever. He did nothing that gave me a technical reason to intervene. It would be counter-productive for Simone if I tried to insert myself into the situation and was prosecuted for assault and possibly convicted.”
Joe scoffed, “They wouldn’t really do that, would they? Everyone in local law enforcement must know that Ned is a walking bomb.”
“True. But the system has rigid rules. A DA who doesn’t follow them can find himself or herself in trouble. Anyway, can you think of any reason why Ned would be watching you?”
Joe shook his head. “No. I would assume he was watching you. Maybe he worries that having a detective on a case that touches Simone, even if in a distant way, puts him and his abuse under the spotlight.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me. But maybe you’re right. Please pay attention to your surroundings and let me know immediately if you sense anyone near your house or anything else out of the ordinary.”
Joe nodded.
“Another question,” I said. “I know you said that most of your social circle was made up of people who have died. You told me about Rell and Simone and Rell’s hiking group. But there must be some people that you speak to now and then, your acquaintances, if not close friends. Even if they don’t know Rell, they still might be useful for me to talk to. For example, of all the people you know, who, after Rell, are you closest to?”
“The first person that comes to mind is Manuel Romero. He’s a young man like you. A year ago, after the paper did a little thing on me for the anniversary of my Olympic medal win, I got an invitation to a breakfast get-together every other month. Because it wasn’t too frequent, I decided to give it a try. There are four other men besides me. Manuel is the one I’ve most connected with. If I’d ever had a son, I would have wanted him to be like Manuel. In fact, Manuel once told me that he considered me to be one of his best friends. I was surprised and flattered.”
“Does he know Rell?”
“He doesn’t know Rell very well, but he’s met her on several occasions.”
“You have common interests?”
“Nothing specific. He’s done some skiing and is interested in my ski history. Mostly, he is the only person in the breakfast group who treats me like a regular guy. The other men are very nice, but I grow weary of the constant references to my age and my Olympic history. They refer to me as the sage and the chief and the champion. They’re all respectful, but it’s tiresome. Manuel just treats me as Joe Rorvik, no roar attached.”
“Any idea what things Rell and Manuel ever talked about?”
“I have no idea. But they’ve met at several social functions, and they seem comfortable around each other. A few months ago, she sat next to him at a dinner for the Heavenly Race Team fundraiser. I imagine that their conversations were just typical social niceties. Weather and town politics and such. But, of course, you could ask Manuel what they discussed.”
“What kind of work does Manuel do?”
“He’s an environmental scientist for UC Davis. He’s worked on a variety of issues for them. As you probably know, UC Davis has done the main research on the decline of the lake’s clarity. A year ago, they got a grant that allowed them to have Manuel move up from Davis and work at the lake full time.”
“What is his focus?”
“I’m not clear on that. I think he called it social environmentalism, a recognition that saving the lake is not going
to happen just through big policy changes, but through shifts in personal attitudes. He wants to convince people that individuals can make a difference.”
“I would have thought it was primarily the big stuff that mattered.”
“Me, too. The only specific thing that I remember about Manuel’s program is that he’s trying to get Central Valley farmers to not plow their fields when it’s windy. Apparently, a big source of the silt clouding up the lake comes from those farms a hundred miles away.”
“Ironic that after he moves up here, he’s trying to work with valley farmers.”
“Yes. That’s why it stuck in my mind. But the farmers respond better when they learn that they’re talking to someone who lives in Tahoe. He seems less like an ivory-tower scientist and more like a Tahoe local who is passionate about a local project.
“Manuel also has what he calls his weekly monitor route around the lake. There are a number of devices all over the basin that collect air and water samples, and Manuel monitors the results. They’re trying to discover where pollution inputs are increasing and where they are decreasing. It goes into what he calls a pollution source map. Not only that, but he has isolated some of the dust collected from his devices, and he’s demonstrated that it came from Central Valley farms. Something to do with the fertilizer they use. He carries the evidence with him to show the farmers. It’s very convincing.”
“I should talk to him. Do you have his number?”
Joe nodded. “Hold on. I’ll get it.”
Joe walked down a hallway, then returned a minute later and handed me a Post-it note with Manuel Romero’s name and number on it.
“Any other people I should check with? Anyone who has spoken to Rell recently?”
Joe shook his head. “Rell knows Simone, and I know Manuel. That’s pretty much it. Oh, I forgot Jillian. Her last name starts with an O. Oesska. Or something like that. It’ll be in Rell’s book.”
Joe stepped over to a small desk that was built into the kitchen, and he looked in an address book. “Here it is. Oleska. Jillian Oleska.” Joe came back and handed me another sticky note with Jillian Oleska’s number.
