Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14)

by Todd Borg

  “Next you’re going to tell me that those insects you study have the most horsepower of all.”

  “Absolutely. A flea can leap hundreds of times its length. The key is power per unit of weight. Remember, an elephant can roll cars over and crush them, but it can’t leap at all.”

  “And you think like this every time you see a dog catching a Frisbee.”

  “I’m a scientist,” she said as if that explained everything.

  “What about you and me?” I asked. “Do you have more horsepower per pound than me?”

  “Well, I’m half your weight, so that would suggest maybe so. But then, you have the strength advantage that comes with testosterone.”

  “Whereas you have special girly girl powers,” I said.

  Street looked at me. “I’m pretty sure no girly girl ever raised maggots as part of her job.”

  “An unusual mix for sure,” I said. “But I can think of at least one activity where you have more horsepower than me.”

  Street made a small grin. “Would that be per pound?”

  “No. Straight up. No pound adjustment necessary.”

  Street reached up and hugged me. Despite the touch, I sensed a background hum of worry.

  Before I could ask about it, my cell rang.

  “I’ll make it quick,” I said to Street. I pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

  “Is this Owen McKenna?” A woman’s voice.

  Street was still hugging me. She heard the woman’s voice. Raised her eyebrows.

  “Speaking,” I said.

  “This is Sergeant Lori Lanzen of the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office. I hope you don’t mind me calling your cell. Sergeant Martinez of Douglas County gave me your number. He also… vouched for you.”

  “I need vouching for? Regarding what?”

  “Let’s just say you are a person of interest in a homicide,” Lanzen said. “Naturally, the concern is whether or not you’re a flight risk. Diamond thought probably not.”

  Now she had my attention. “Emphasis on ‘not’ or on ‘probably?’” I asked.

  Street’s eyes were wide.

  “Not sure,” Lanzen said. “The victim’s name is David Montrop. Do you recognize that name?”

  “No. What connects me to his murder?” I asked.

  “We found a note that names you as his probable killer.”

  “What?! Any idea who wrote the note?”

  “The victim.”

  “Montrop,” I said.

  “Right.”

  It took me a moment to process. “You’re saying that David Montrop, who’s dead, claims I killed him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I know why you wanted Diamond to vouch for me,” I said.

  The sergeant didn’t respond.

  “Where would you like me to meet you?” I asked.

  “I’m at Montrop’s house in Incline. Any chance you could come here soon?”

  “Either that or I flee to another country. Let me think about it for a moment.”

  “I’ll give you directions,” the sergeant said, ignoring my attempt at levity.

  She gave me an address and some directions, and asked when I’d be there.

  “If I’m not there in an hour, send one of your teams to the Air Canada gate at the Reno Tahoe Airport.”

  When I hung up, Street said, “Quite the conundrum,” she said. “A dead guy accusing you of killing him. How do you suppose you did it?”

  “I’ll know soon.” I reached out and touched her cheek. “You okay? You seem stressed.”

  She made a little frown and shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m just behind on work.”

  I held her look a bit. It seemed as if there was a shadow across her face even though we were in the sun.

  “Really,” she said. “I’ll be fine as soon as I catch up.”

  I nodded even though I could tell it was something else.

  We hugged goodbye, and Spot and I left.

  TWO

  Thirty-five minutes later, I turned into a neighborhood above Incline Village on the northeast shore of Lake Tahoe. Up the street were two Washoe County Sheriff’s patrol units parked on the shoulder, one of which had its light bar flashing.

  In the entrance of a driveway that rose up from the road at a steep angle was a blue unmarked, its multiple antennas a giveaway to anyone closer than fifty yards. I parked in a bit of shade and got out. Spot had his head out the rear window, so I put him in a headlock, gave him a knuckle rub, then walked to the drive, which was made of brick laid in a pattern of overlapping arcs. A uniformed officer stopped me as I approached.

  “Sorry, sir, this is a crime scene. I can’t let you pass.”

  “Please tell your sergeant that Owen McKenna is here. She’s looking for me.”

  The man got on his radio, said some words, got a scratchy reply, and then turned to me. “You’re right. Go on up.” He pointed up the driveway. I walked up.

  The house sat behind a row of ornamental Maple trees that were just beginning to bud out in the early June sunshine. The building was made of smooth-cut stone and glass and looked timeless. It had a gabled roof made of copper, with the glass rising to the roof peaks. Where the windows met at a corner was a chimney made of polished granite blocks. To the side were two garages, with double-wide doors constructed to look like broad, modern double gates that would swing out rather than rise up.

  A burgundy Mercedes was parked in front of one of the garages. On the brick driveway, 20 feet from the driver’s door lay what looked like an expensive Italian loafer. To the side of the car, near the edge of the driveway, half in the shade of a Maple and half in the sun, was the body of a man in his late sixties or early seventies. Although well dressed, his clothes failed to disguise the fact that he was thin to the point of suggesting some kind of health problem. His head was torn open at the temple, a flap of skin hanging amidst a lot of dried blood. The clothes at his chest looked like they’d been sliced up the center with an unsharpened hedge shears. The long rough opening in the fabric was soaked with drying blood.

  A cop was taking pictures of the victim from every angle. Another had an evidence kit and was dusting the car for fingerprints.

  The house’s entry had a large portico to drive under during snow or rain. The portico was held up by stone columns at the corners and had a stone sidewall four feet high. A cop had set a laptop on top of the sidewall. He was typing on it. The sergeant stood in the open entry, talking on her phone.

  The sergeant clicked off her phone.

  I walked up. “Owen McKenna, your person of interest,” I said.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m Lori Lanzen. Sergeant Diamond Martinez of Douglas County explained that you used to be with the San Francisco PD.”

  I nodded as we shook hands. Her hand was small, but her grip was strong.

  I gestured toward the body. “Any idea what killed him?”

  She pointed past the body. “Behind those Manzanita bushes is a paddle board. It has blood on the point at the front – what’s that called? – and there’s also blood on the fin thing on the bottom of the rear.”

  “The point is the bow,” I said.

  She frowned. “Oh, right. The bow.”

  “And the fin thing at the bottom of the stern is just called the fin. Some years back, it was called a skeg when on a sailboard. Now fin is the common nomenclature.”

  “The fin,” she said. “Yes, of course. Well, no wonder the victim thinks you killed him. You have more than a passing familiarity with the murder weapon.”

  I nodded. “You think it’s murder one?”

  “Hard to know. It all gets down to intent, right? Clearly, we have malice aforethought. This was not a completely accidental death. At the bare minimum, the person who threw the paddle board intended harm. But first degree murder? If I planned to murder someone, my first choice of weapon wouldn’t be a paddle board, even if I were big enough to throw it. So, second degree looks more likely.”

&n
bsp; I nodded.

  “I should start by asking you the basic questions,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know of or have you ever met the victim, David Montrop?” she asked.

  “Never heard of him to my knowledge.”

  “Have you ever been to this house?”

  I shook my head as I looked around at the mountains and the lake in the distance. “I’ve never even been in this neighborhood.”

  “Are you associated in any way with the music promotion business?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have anything to do with concerts or bands?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever heard of a company called Big Lake Promotions?”

  “No.”

  “Can you think of any way that the victim may have known of you?”

  “Not in particular. I’ve been in the news now and then in conjunction with some of my cases. But I’m not that well known. Of course, many local law enforcement officers know of me.”

  “Do Tahoe LEOs appreciate your presence in the community, or do they resent you?”

  “As best as I can tell, most of them don’t think of me as too much of a pest. But as you know, cops sometimes have a pejorative attitude toward those of us who go private. Why do you ask?”

  “Because David Montrop made a point of mentioning your cop background. It’s almost as if he has a thing about cops. But when I initially looked him up, I didn’t find a record. Come with me,” she said. “I’ll show you what we found.” She walked across the broad entry, through wide double doors, both open, and into a room with a slate floor. In the center was a pedestal with what looked like a six-foot-tall Remington bronze showing a cowboy on his horse, his arm raised to throw a lasso. I’d never seen a Remington that was that large, so maybe it was just a look-alike.

  I followed the sergeant through a grand open living room. On the far side of the room, we went up a step into a study the size of my cabin. The room had one wall of windows that looked up through a Jeffrey Pine forest toward Rose Knob Peak, one of the often-overlooked sister mountains that stretch out to the southwest from Mt. Rose.

  The other walls had large bookshelves that held old leather books with embossed gold leaf letters. They were nice decor, but their perfect alignment suggested that they weren’t frequently consulted, if ever read at all. Among the bookshelves on one wall was an area devoted to framed certificates and citations with elaborate calligraphy, some with gold award stickers. On a stand was a glass plaque with acid-etched musical notes and lettering no doubt proclaiming some kind of achievement in the music industry.

  In the center of the room was a huge desk with a forest green, inset leather top. The desk was relatively clean. It had a banker’s lamp, a brass and teak pen-and-pencil holder, and a small brass clock. On the corner of the desk was an 8 x10 photo of an old cruiser-type boat in an easel-back frame. As a boat fancier, I leaned in to get a closer look. It looked like a 1960s cuddy cabin design, maybe a Thompson. It didn’t look to be in good shape, but it had probably given Montrop good times at some point in the past. To one side of the desk was a stack of papers. To the other side was a computer printer. On it was a piece of copy paper with printing. The sergeant pointed toward it.

  I walked around behind the desk, leaned over, and looked at it without touching it.

  The top of the note was dated with the previous day’s date and the time of 10:30 p.m., looking very much as if Montrop had typed and printed the note the previous evening.

  If something violent should happen to me, it’s possible the perpetrator is an ex-cop named Owen McKenna. He and I go way back, and I have reason to believe he has angry feelings toward me. I wouldn’t put it past him to attack me in an attempt to settle an old score.

  If someone is reading this note, then that suggests it is too late to do anything other than try to catch him or whoever assaulted me.

  I don’t want to falsely accuse McKenna, but I will take this information to the police tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to bed with a sense of foreboding, so I write this note.

  I turned to the sergeant.

  “Unusual note,” I said to her.

  Sergeant Lanzen nodded. “Do you have a comment?”

  “No. I have no idea who he is or why he might think I have angry feelings toward him.”

  Sergeant Lanzen’s gaze settled on Montrop’s note.

  “Have you any idea why he was murdered?” I asked.

  Lanzen shook her head. “No. The gardener found him dead when he arrived this morning. He called nine-one-one and indicated in broken English that Mr. Montrop had died.”

  “The gardener carries a house key,” I said.

  “Apparently.” Lanzen glanced out the window. There was a smallish man sitting on a decorative iron bench in a small garden near the Mercedes. He rocked left and right as if distraught. “His duties include the indoor plants as well,” Lanzen said. “He communicated in so many words that the place is as he found it.”

  “Neat and picked up,” I said.

  “Yes. Apparently, the housekeeper was here yesterday. It looks like nothing has been touched since then beyond a few dishes in the kitchen, the clothes and bedding in Montrop’s bedroom, and…” she paused, then gestured at the desk, “this note.”

  Lanzen gestured toward the door. “Please come outside and look at the body. You said you don’t know him by name, but we should check that you don’t recognize him.”

  “Of course.”

  I followed her outside. There were two men who had wheeled a gurney and body bag up the driveway and were waiting for her approval before they removed the body.

  She spoke to them. “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  “You’ve completed your death scene examination?” I said.

  “Yes. And because of the peculiarities, the Medical Examiner already stopped by. We’ll know more after the pathologist completes the autopsy, but he said it looks like Montrop died from blunt force trauma to the head.”

  Lanzen walked me over to the body, then stepped aside so I could see.

  The victim’s head was turned sideways, the wounded temple facing the sky, the other cheek mashed against driveway brick. I leaned in to get a closer look. From my perspective, he was upside down, not the best angle for recognition. I backed away and walked around to see him from the proper perspective.

  When the sergeant had first mentioned the name David Montrop on the phone, I didn’t recall the name. But I certainly knew the face.

  I turned to Sergeant Lanzen. “I was wrong. I do recognize him. From a long time back. Let me think a moment. It would have been twelve or more years ago. In San Francisco. Probably the reason you didn’t find criminal activity is that he went by a different name. I don’t recall what it was, but David Montrop doesn’t seem familiar. He was a con man who should have spent a decade in San Quentin for voluntary manslaughter. But because of multiple procedural mistakes the prosecution made and some sloppy evidence collection on our part, he got off with just probation.”

  THREE

  “You know David Montrap as a former manslaughter suspect,” Sergeant Lanzen repeated as if to be sure she understood correctly.

  “Correct. I was a Homicide Inspector when he was charged and prosecuted,” I said. “Although I don’t think Montrop ever knew my name. I had no direct dealings with him. The cop who brought him in was Bill Riley, a colleague of mine who is still with the SFPD.”

  Lanzen was frowning. “If Montrop didn’t know your name back then, do you think it’s a coincidence that Montrop names you as someone threatening him?”

  I shook my head. “No. In this business, a good default position is to assume there are no coincidences.”

  Lanzen said, “You said Montrop was a con man. What do you mean by that?”

  “He ran a music swindle that began when he discovered a great new band with a great song and a really good demo video. He convinced the band that he was an agent a
nd that he could sell them to a big record company. Of course, the band got excited. Two weeks later, he came back to them with the great news that one of the biggest record companies had made an offer and believed the band was going to become the next big thing. They were supposedly offering a contract that would give the band a little advance money but no royalties until the band became a hit. Of course, he made it all up. Then he told the band that the recording label was also starting a new producing and publishing program where they’d allow certain, special bands to become co-investors. In return for the band putting up a sizable amount of cash, the label would give them a much bigger royalty percentage and a generous sliding scale of bonuses if they hit certain sales targets.”

  “So the band members coughed up money,” Lanzen said, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. A lot. Two of the band members had families with money, and Montrop got them to invest two hundred thousand in return for a contract that he said would possibly give them huge returns, potentially ranging into the tens of millions if they became a hit.”

  “Let me guess,” the sergeant said. “He kept the money and never even contacted any record company.”

  “Worse. He did contact a record company, played them the demo, said it was by a different band, the name of which he made up, and told them that the band was his creation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He told them that he created the entire package, hired the band members and the songwriters and even paid for and produced the music video.”

  “Does that really happen?”

  “Often, yes. Famous bands like The Monkees and NSYNC and the Spice Girls were fabricated from scratch by ambitious managers. Montrop got a record company so excited about this fake band of his that they offered a traditional contract with a large signing bonus.”

  “Which Montrop also kept,” Lanzen said.

  “Right. But one of the band members suspected the truth and tracked Montrop down and accosted him at Montrop’s high-rise apartment by the Embarcadero in San Francisco. They scuffled, and the singer fell off Montrop’s balcony to his death. The fight was witnessed by people in an apartment in a high rise across the street.”