Tahoe Deathfall

by Todd Borg

Spot was already there, but, oddly, he stood distant from the place Street indicated. He sniffed the air, then turned his head as if saddened by what he smelled. A strip of yellow crime scene tape fluttered from a pine bough near his head.

  “Spot, come here,” I said.

  He turned and looked at me with drooping eyes.

  “Spot, come!”

  He walked toward me, his movements listless. When he was eight feet away from me, he lay down in the dirt, tucked his nose down between his paws, and gave forth a big sigh.

  Can dogs smell death? Spot’s reaction certainly suggested as much. I walked over to him, bent down and rubbed his head. “What’s wrong, your largeness?”

  He ignored me and kept his nose buried in his paws.

  “Okay. Give me a minute to look around and we’ll leave.”

  Street came over. “Come on, Spot. Let’s get out of here. The detective can find us back at the car.” She patted him on the side of his chest and then walked back up the trail. Spot stood and followed her without looking back at me.

  “I’ll be there in a bit,” I called after them.

  After they left I looked anew at the forest.

  The body had been found in a shallow ravine that ran vertically down the mountain. I hiked up to one of the low ridges that comprised a side of the ravine. From this vantage point I could see another, parallel ravine. They were twins in size and shape and direction except for one thing. The neighboring ravine had a small stream running. I looked up the mountain above me but saw no evidence of snow. On this arid east side of the Carson Range, the only snow was to the south on the tall slopes of Heavenly ski area and Jobs Peak and Jobs Sister. Where we were, on Carson Valley side of Highway 50, the peaks were mostly under 9,000 feet and all the snow had melted weeks ago. Which meant that the water in the ravine next door came from a spring.

  I turned back to the ravine where the body had been found. Nothing unusual caught my eye, which made it a good place for a murder. The jeep trail allowed access to anyone with a four-wheel-drive. And the ravine pro­vided complete privacy from the highway a half mile dis­tant. The nondescript quality of the area made it unattractive for hikers and other off-road types. Anyone could have driven out here with the woman whose brace­let said ‘Maria-I’ll-love-you-forever’ and shot her with a pistol. The killer would have had a reasonable expectation that the body wouldn’t be found for weeks.

  I took another look at the tire tracks and foot­prints. They could belong to anybody, pre-murder or post-murder. I hiked back after Street and Spot.

  They were resting in the shade of a large Jeffrey pine.

  “Find anything?” Street asked.

  “No. A general topography affording lots of pri­vacy for murder. A spring-fed stream in the next ravine over. Nothing else.”

  “Then we should take this canine someplace to get his mind off what he smelled back there,” Street said.

  “Perhaps a visit to the ex-husband of the woman who died hiking on Mount Rose would do the trick.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Lakeshore Drive is a row of millionaire’s houses on the water. Many of them are being torn down and replaced with billionaire’s houses. Some are made of stone and slate, some are cedar and glass, some are white stucco cubes and cylinders. We drove slowly down the mani­cured street watching house numbers. Three kids were running through a sprinkler. They stopped and stared at Spot as we rolled by.

  The house belonging to John Smithson had a glass front that rose maybe forty feet to a pointed roof. Sky and mountains showed through the glass on the other side. Where there weren’t windows there were fieldstone walls interrupted by window bays which were clad in green copper sheets. I pulled into the drive which was made of bricks. I parked in front of a three car garage with a multi-gabled roof. Street and I got out and left Spot in the Jeep.

  The front entry was a double door, each one over-sized and made of oak with hand-carved filigree. There was a brass knocker in the shape of Atlas holding the Earth. I picked up the little globe and smacked it down onto Atlas’s shoulders.

  The door opened and a big woman in her late thir­ties smiled at us. She had long straight hair, blond as corn-cob silk and was wearing a purple Lycra jumpsuit. “Yes?” she said.

  “Hi. We’re here to see John Smithson, please.”

  She smiled and looked over at Spot in the Jeep. As she shifted her weight from one foot to the other I real­ized that she was muscle-bound. Under the Lycra were distinct biceps, triceps, quadriceps, and more.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Owen McKenna and Street Casey. It’s about Penelope.””

  The woman’s smile wilted. “Wait here. I’ll see.” She shut the door in our face.

  She was back in a minute. “He’ll see you by the pool. This way.” She led us through a large glass-walled room with a marble floor and a marble fireplace on one end. Beyond the glass was a kidney-shaped pool with the sparkle and color of blue diamonds. Just past the pool was the lake with the snow-capped peaks of the south shore in the distance. In front of the pool, in a lounge chair with his back to us, was a man reading a thick paperback. He had on white pants and a tight white T-shirt. He stood and turned toward us as we followed the Lycra lady out to the pool. His muscles bulged.

  “You!” he said, the word catching in his throat. His heavy arms levitated slightly from his sides.

  “Took the word right out of my mouth,” I said.

  Street looked at me.

  “Mr. Smithson and I have met before. In the woods across from my office. He was following Jennifer, but too dumb and belligerent to admit it.”

  “Listen little lady,” the man said to Street. “You better wait out back. Your man has some explaining to do and it might get messy.” His shoulders tensed. The defini­tion around his deltoids and trapezius muscles was impres­sive.

  Years ago at the academy the first rule we learned was always call for backup. “Street, would you please get Spot?”

  “What,” he huffed. “You brought the damn hound with you?”

  “Crowd control,” I said.

  Street started for the side of the house.

  “Should I stop her?” the Lycra woman said.

  The man nodded.

  The woman stepped in front of Street. The woman had a good fifty pounds of solid muscle on Street. Street stopped and looked at me. I shrugged.

  “I’m getting tired of you poking your nose into my business,” Smithson said. He advanced on me, arms bulg­ing.

  I thought about grabbing the charcoal grill nearby and wrapping it around his head, but it would have been unseemly in such a nice neighborhood.

  “You tall boys got reach,” he said. He was into his stance. “But I got punch.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I kicked him in the groin.

  He bent over, arms between his legs.

  I stepped next to him, laid my hand on the massive web of muscles across his back and gave him a push. He fell into the pool. “Okay, Street,” I said.

  The woman looked at me. She stepped sideways. Street ran around the house.

  Smithson sounded like he’d inhaled some water. He coughed and gasped and clawed at the edge of the pool.

  I jumped in. I grabbed him by his belt and dragged him to the steps. He was a heavy load. I did my best to make carrying him appear effortless as I hauled him by the belt, up and out of the water. I dropped him onto the chaise lounge. The Lycra woman rushed to his side as he sputtered and coughed up water.

  Spot came running around the house. He charged up to me, wagging. I gave him a rough rub. Spot turned and looked at the couple near the swimming pool. He walked over to the edge of the pool, lowered his nose to the water and sniffed. Street peeked around the corner of the house. Spot lapped at the water a couple of times. The man suddenly noticed and went rigid. Spot lifted his head and shook it, water flying from his jowls.

  “Spot,” I said. I pointed at Smithson. “Watch him.”

 
; Spot walked over and sat down in a patch of sun­light next to the chaise lounge where Smithson continued to cough. Spot’s head was above Smithson and he hung it down over Smithson’s body. He looked vaguely like a hungry vulture. The woman backed away, her steps slow and even.

  “Show him you mean it, Spot.”

  Spot lifted his lips in a little growl. Then he started panting from the heat of the sun, his huge tongue dangling out the side of his mouth. He looked longingly at the pool.

  “Spot,” I said. “Pay attention.”

  My dog glanced at me, then went back to watching Smithson.

  Smithson quivered. “Don’t,” he said in a small voice.

  “Don’t what?” I said.

  “Don’t let him on me. Call him off.”

  “You answer my questions and Spot goes hungry.”

  “Hon, call nine-one-one,” Smithson said. “Run.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “We can all talk to the police about how you tried to assault me. Oh, and while we’re at it, let’s ask them if they’ve gotten any further on their investigation into the deaths of Alexandra and Penelope.”

  Smithson jerked his eyes from Spot to me. “What are you talking about?” His teeth were clenched. The woman in the purple suit didn’t move.

  “I understand they’ve recently been looking into your file. New evidence or something. When you call, ask for Diamond Martinez, Douglas County Sheriff’s Deputy. He’ll tell you about it.”

  Smithson’s eyes were intensely black. He looked back at Spot. I saw Smithson’s muscles tense, but I didn’t think he had the guts to try anything. Spot’s eyes wavered from Smithson to the pool and back.

  “Let me ask you again,” I said. “Why did you run off into the woods that day? Who were you following?”

  “Screw you.”

  I realized that Smithson was not going to talk without more pressure than I was willing to apply. I looked at Street. “Forthcoming,” I said. “Let’s go.” I walked over, took her arm and steered her around the house.

  “Call off your dog!” Smithson yelled as we left his line of sight. His voice wavered.

  I didn’t trust Smithson not to pull a gun, so I waited until we were to the Jeep. “Come on, Spot!”

  FOURTEEN