Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14)

by Todd Borg

  “How are your wounds?” I pointed toward his wrists.

  He held his wrists out as if to look at them. “Better. Still scabby. But that’ll go away. I still can’t lift my arms up to my forehead.”

  “Are you able to go back to school?”

  “Yes, but spring quarter is almost over. I was going to take classes over summer session, but I have to figure out how to pay for it now that my school allowance died with my stepdad. One of the nurses said I might be able to get some kind of restitution if the kidnappers could be caught. But I wouldn’t know where to begin on that. I’d probably have to call a lawyer, right? I have no money for that.”

  “What happens to your stepfather’s assets? Did he have a will?”

  “I have no idea. I doubt it primarily because I doubt he had any assets to worry about. He was always trying to work a deal, and as a result, he never saved or did anything sensible. If he needed money, he saw the solution as working another hustle, not working like everyone else.”

  “I learned that his house in Incline is actually owned by an LLC out of Vegas,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s perfect. That’s classic David Montrop. One more part of a fraudulent scheme, no doubt.”

  “Have you thought any more about the kidnapping? Have you remembered anything else that might help us track the kidnappers?”

  “I wish. It’s very scary to think of them out there. I keep having nightmares about men in hockey masks, tying me up, whispering threats in my ear. I wake up calling out, soaked with sweat.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like I’m downplaying it, but it will get better with time.”

  Jonas nodded.

  “Anything else you need?”

  “No. Just catch those guys, please.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that it had already been long enough that it was unlikely we ever would. “We’ll keep trying,” I said. “One more question. You said you didn’t know where Flynn lives. Can you think of anyone who might? Or any way I might try to find him?”

  Jonas shook his head. “No, sorry. He used to stop by all the time. We had good times together on my boat. That’s why he wanted to buy it. But after the boat started leaking, Flynn got so mad at me, I haven’t seen or heard from him in weeks.” Jonas paused, then said, “I’m no help to you at all, am I?”

  “Don’t worry about that. But if you think of anything, give me a call right away, okay?” I gave him my card.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  After I left, I went over what I knew about the man known only as Flynn.

  He was a contemporary of Evan as well as the robbers who’d been killed. He hadn’t gone to Wilson High in Reno, but he hung out there. He must have been about the same age, which would put him in his mid-to-late twenties. I also remembered thinking that if you took the man called Flynn in the yearbook and had him put on 130 pounds, he’d look something like Randy Bosworth of Reno Armored. Evan thought Flynn had spoken with an accent, possibly Australian. I’d thought the same about Randy Bosworth.

  The logical next step would be to ask Bosworth about his past, find out if he had gained a lot of weight since high school or if he had a skinny brother. But after getting him in trouble with his boss, I knew I’d never get any information out of him.

  Finding someone when you didn’t know anything about them other than a first name and a location where’d they’d been seen nine years earlier was not an easy task.

  When I got home, I called Street.

  “You’re pretty savvy with the whole social media thing, right?” I said when she answered.

  “Not at all.”

  “But you said you do Facebook.”

  “I use Facebook in just a rudimentary way. It just allows people to have a vague sense of what I’m up to so I don’t have to send out Christmas cards. And it takes less time than checking in with people by telephone or email. My use of Facebook is sporadic and somewhat ineffectual.”

  “Like I said, you’re savvy with social media.”

  “You’re thinking of joining Facebook?”

  “No. But I’m wondering if you could show me how to do something on it. I think I told you about a guy who used to hang out at Wilson High in Reno nine years ago. All I know is that he went by Flynn and he knew Evan and the two robbers who were murdered.”

  “But you’re a detective. It’s your business to find missing people.”

  “Sure. I could use the old skip tracing tricks. Often the gumshoe technique of going door-to-door with a photo will produce results. But in this case, the information about this guy is so lean, it might take ten years. I’m thinking that new technology might speed things up. I’ve heard that people find long-lost relatives and friends on Facebook.”

  Street was silent for moment. “What you’re saying is that despite your skip tracing skills, you haven’t a clue about this guy’s whereabouts.”

  “Busted. What say you? Would you help me?”

  Over the phone, I could hear Street shaking her head. “Owen, I’m a scientist. My contacts are other entomologists in insect paradises like Hawaii and sub-saharan Africa and Indonesia. People who study bugs are by definition introverts. Why else would we spend so much time with little creepy crawlies? How are entomologists scattered around the world going to know a guy named Flynn who was last seen in Reno nine years ago?”

  “I guess I had a vague idea that Facebook had an enormous reach.”

  “Okay, come over and I’ll show you the limitations. And bring His Largeness. Blondie could use a run in the forest. I haven’t let her off the leash for a while because my neighbor saw a mountain lion the other day. But if Blondie’s with Spot, she’ll be safe.”

  Spot and I drove down the mountain and showed up at Street’s condo door 15 minutes later. Blondie was so excited, she started leaping at Spot, who kept turning and giving her shoulder blocks. Then they bolted into the forest, Blondie darting at random through the trees, Spot trying without much luck to keep up.

  Street and I went inside, and I pulled a dining chair over to her desk so we could both sit at her computer. Street brought up her Facebook page.

  “Basically, think of this as a bulletin board,” she said. “I can stick stuff on the board. Other people who pay attention to my board and have my permission to look at it will see what I put on it.” She stopped and looked at me to see if I comprehended.

  “That’s what Facebook is?” I said.

  “Well, it’s more than that, but that’s the main thing I know how to do. Did you think it was something else?”

  “I… I guess I assumed it was a book of faces.”

  Street started giggling. “Oh, that’s rich. Tell me you’re joking.” She laughed so hard her face turned red. “Maybe I could post that on Facebook. My boyfriend, the brilliant detective Owen McKenna, is wondering where to find the book of faces.”

  “Sure, humiliate me across the internet universe.”

  She was still giggling. “Were you hoping to search through the book of faces and see if Flynn was in there?”

  “Something like that.” I pulled out the Wilson High yearbook and showed her Flynn’s picture.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Street said, still making little laugh hiccups. She opened her scanner, set the photo on it, and hit the button. The scanner light moved under the photo. In a moment, Street used her trackpad and tapped keys, and Flynn’s nine-year-old photo appeared on her screen.

  “So,” Street said, “if you like I can post this photo on my Facebook page with a little explanation. Then my limited group of nerdy science friends can look and see if they recognize his picture and his name. If they are incredibly bored and have nothing to do, they could also send the picture to their circle of friends. Although I should warn you that scientists have a limitless curiosity, so they are never incredibly bored. As you can imagine, the chances that someone I know happens to also remember a Flynn from years ago in Reno are very small.”

  “I can see the futility,” I said. “Plus, if y
ou posted Flynn’s picture, your Facebook friends would probably think you’re a bit strange, as if you were incredibly bored and had nothing to do.”

  “Then I’ll word it so they know that you are behind it,” Street said. “Okay, how about this.” Street began to type as she spoke. “‘Hi all. My private investigator boyfriend Owen McKenna is trying to locate an important witness in a case that goes back years. The man’s name is Flynn, last name unknown, and Flynn was last seen at Wilson High School in Reno nine years ago. I don’t imagine that any of you know Flynn or were at Wilson High nine years ago. But some of you might know someone who was in that area, and you could put the question to them. Long shot, right? But hey, that’s what Facebook is good for.’”

  Street clicked and dragged with her track pad and then tapped a few more keys. “Now I’ll upload the picture we just scanned and put it on my page above what I just wrote.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  She clicked again. The picture of Flynn appeared on the screen just above what she’d written. “There, you’re live on the Street Casey Entomologist Facebook page. Something like twenty-seven people in the universe can now see it.”

  “I really appreciate your help.”

  “No sweat,” she said.

  “Some of your colleagues might think you’ve gone around the bend. If so, I’d feel bad about…”

  “Hold on,” Street said. She pointed at the screen. “We’ve got incoming. We couldn’t get a reply that fast, could we? But we did. This is from Candy Cane Cloutier, an entomologist in Miami.”

  “Candy Cane?”

  “She studies certain ants and uses a particular brand of candy canes for bait. When she got written up in one of the journals, the writer used the moniker, and it’s stuck ever since. Here’s what she wrote.”

  Street read. “‘Hi, Street. I’ve never heard of Wilson High and I’ve only been to Reno once. But remember when I was vacationing in Tahoe three months ago and your schedule was too busy for us to get together? Anyway I got talking to a restaurant waitress who works as a ski instructor in the winter. She got her master’s degree in sociology, and we got into the whole thing about the similarities between groups of people and groups of social insects, especially bees. I know, sounds like a riot, doesn’t it! Anyway, we were trying to quantify the male’s place in a world where all the worker bees are female. Remind you of people? Ha! Other than fertilizing the queen, the drones, i.e., the males, are pretty much worthless, right?’”

  Street turned to me, grinned like the Cheshire Cat, then went back to reading.

  “‘So this waitress was using male ski bums as comparisons. She said they’re just like drone bees, good for nothing except sex. And then she joked about how they mostly weren’t even good at that. But her example was a ski bum named Flynn. I remember the name because she said he was flaky. Flaky Flynn, she called him, and she said she could have really used him as a role model of uselessness back when she was writing her sociology thesis. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that Flynn basically hangs out at the ski area where she is a ski instructor. He’s probably not the guy your guy wants. But how many Flynns can there be?’”

  Street paused.

  “Is that the end of Candy Cane’s note?”

  “Yeah,” Street said, nodding as she typed. “I’m asking her if she remembers the name of the waitress or the ski resort or the restaurant.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” I said.

  “Here it comes back. ‘No on the waitress name or the ski area name. But the restaurant was right on Lake Tahoe on the West Shore. A good sized place. Outdoor tables on the water where we had beers even though it was snowing! We huddled under the overhead warmers, and it was great. I got the feeling the ski area was close by.’”

  “Sunnyside Restaurant,” I said. “And Homewood Ski Resort is just down the road. Perfect.”

  “Okay, let me thank Candy Cane Cloutier and sign off.” Street typed.

  “I’m really impressed,” I said when she was done.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I just have one question,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Are men really like male bees, good for nothing except sex?”

  “I suppose some men aren’t even good for that. But regardless of your value, you can rejoice that you don’t have the sex life of a drone bee.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Street made a hint of a grin. “Because a drone bee has to be very lucky to get accepted by the queen. Only the tiniest percentage of drone bees get that honor.”

  “You say that like it’s a problem.”

  Street nodded. “From the perspective of the male bee, probably yes. Glorious as it may seem, sex for the lucky drone is a one-time event. Because when the drone and the queen are done, and the drone tries to separate, the queen’s grip is so tight that the drone’s genitals rip off and stay inside the queen.”

  “Oh! Major ouch. What happens then?”

  “The drone dies immediately.”

  “Okay, I changed my mind. The life of a monk looks better and better.”

  An hour and a half later, I was on the West Shore at Sunnyside Restaurant.

  Spot was unconscious in the rear seat. I cracked the windows an inch, and went inside.

  “Table for one?” the host asked.

  “Actully, I’m looking for someone. A friend said she knew a waitress here who is a ski instructor in the winter. Does that sound familiar?”

  He looked off at a blank wall. His fingers made counting motions. “Four. Four of our female wait staff are ski instructors. Well, actually, one is a snowboard instructor. And three of our male wait staff are ski instructors. Let me think. We represent Squaw, Alpine, Northstar, and, of course, Homewood just down the road.

  “This instructor is a sociologist.”

  “Heck, yes, I know her. Sophie Gaines. A sociologist by education. Never underestimate the wait staff at Tahoe restaurants. I, for example, am a screenwriter.”

  “Hey, that’s great. Is Sophie around?”

  “Her shift was over twenty minutes ago. She lit out of here like a Nascar driver in the pole position.”

  “Any idea of where I could find her?”

  He shook his head.

  At a nearby table were three teenagers with their wallets out, counting their money.

  “Phone number?” I said.

  Another head shake. “Privacy laws. But I could leave her a message.”

  “That would be great.” I handed him my card. “If you would, please tell her that my name is Owen McKenna, and I’m a private investigator looking for a ski bum named Flynn. Tell her I learned about her from an entomologist in Florida.”

  “Are you serious? A PI? An entomologist in Florida? That’s, like, right out of a screenplay.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll let you write the story.”

  He regarded me for a moment, then pulled out his phone and dialed.

  “Sophie? I’ve got a private investigator here who is looking for you. Says he wants to know about a ski bum named Flynn. He heard about you from an entomologist in Florida. Is that…” Pause. “Okay.”

  The man clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket. “She’s heading to the Tahoma Market. She’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. She drives a white Toyota Highlander. Do you know where the Tahoma Market is?”

  “Yes. Thanks. I’ll meet her there.”

  Spot barely opened an eye when I got into the Jeep. “Coulda had a burger for you, Largeness, but it didn’t work out.” I pulled out of the parking lot and turned south. In several minutes, I was at the Tahoma Market, a small, cute general store inside an old Tahoe cabin-style building. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

  Five minutes later, a white Toyota Highlander pulled into a space near the market’s front door. I got out and trotted across the highway.

  “Sophie Gaines?”

  The woman who looked up at me was in her thirties and had the frown of the
reluctant intellectual. Her hiking boots and jeans and flannel shirt and Carhartt vest revealed the rugged Tahoe outdoors woman. But the master’s in sociology, which she probably kept secret from most locals, produced the tension frown. I’d seen it many times. It’s hard to pursue a profession that requires a university in the big city, when the heart wants to put some snacks and craft brews in the pack, strap climbing skins onto the back-country skis, and bag another Sierra Crest peak. Once there, the body and soul can look down across the vast snowfields, munch some sharp cheddar and whole grain crackers, and drink a fermented celebration to a late-spring sunset, the big reddish orb lowering into the Pacific 170 miles to the west.

  “I’m Owen McKenna,” I said, reaching out my hand.

  She shook my hand, but said nothing.

  “Sorry for the interruption in your afternoon. I’m an investigator looking into a crime, and my current case has me searching out a man whose first name is Flynn. Through a question posted on my girlfriend’s Facebook page, your name came up as someone who knew a ski bum named Flynn. I don’t know if this is the Flynn I want, but I’m hoping you can help me.”

  She hesitated. Maybe she wasn’t suspicious. But she was cautious.

  “Who’s your girlfriend? Do I know her?”

  “Street Casey. She’s an entomologist who lives near me across the lake.”

  The woman thought about it.

  I waited.

  Eventually, she said, “What is this crime you’re investigating?”

  “There have been three murders, one in Incline Village, and two on the South Shore near Baldwin Beach. We don’t have many leads. But two of the victims were suspects in an armored truck robbery. Those two men went to Wilson High School in Reno. Flynn, who’s in his late twenties, spent at least some of his high school years in Reno and spent time with the victims. I have indications that he’s recently spent time in the Tahoe Basin.”