Tahoe deep, p.2
Tahoe Deep, page 2
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
CHAPTER TWO
“He's blind?” I asked.
Mae said, “He can tell if it’s day or night. He can make out vague shapes and sense movement. But he can’t see your face or read, no matter how big the letters. And he can’t go outside the house without his cane.”
“Blindness would complicate dealing with injuries,” I said. “The best indicators for how serious some bruises are is how they look.”
“And his look bad. Especially his face and left arm. Daniel won’t say how he feels about anything. He’s a real stoic, all held in. I tried to describe to him what his bruises looked like. But it made no difference. He refuses to go to the hospital.”
“You said you found him lying on the floor.”
“Lying, moaning, making little choking sounds like he was having trouble breathing. I had to lift him up off the floor and get him to his rocking chair. Luckily, he’s light and I’m strong. I was worried I’d cause his death if he had a broken neck or some kind of internal rupture. But he insisted. He practically yelled at me to get him up. So I did as he wished. Maybe that was wrong.”
“If he hasn’t gotten worse, it was probably fine. With some injuries, it’s better to get the patient sitting upright. You said Commander Mallory spoke to Daniel?” I asked.
“That’s right. He asked Daniel how he ended up on the floor and how he got his bruises. Daniel said he slipped and fell and hit his face and arm.”
“Mallory didn’t believe him?”
“No, of course not.”
“What about the break-in?” I asked. “That’s a crime even if Daniel says he wasn’t beaten.”
“Daniel says there was no break-in. He says he stepped out for some fresh air last night and the fall happened as he walked back to his door, and that’s what broke the door.”
“No doubt Mallory didn’t believe that, either.”
“No. It’s obvious to everyone what happened. But Daniel is sticking to his story.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“I’d like you to come over and talk to him. Mallory said you’re a pretty good investigator. Maybe you would be able to figure out what really happened.”
I paused for a moment on the ‘pretty good’ description. Mallory and I didn’t have a flawless history, the result of a major mistaken-suspect incident I caused a couple of years before when searching for a kidnapped autistic girl. ‘Pretty good’ might be accurate from Mallory’s point of view. Telling it to others might be payback for the trouble I caused.
I hadn’t spoken when Mae added, “I have some money saved. I can pay your fee. At least, in the beginning.”
I got the address and directions from Mae and told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes.
She didn’t respond.
After several seconds, I said, “Mae? Are you there?”
“Hold on, I’m checking something.”
I turned toward Spot, who was now lying on his back in a large arc, all four legs up in the air, jowls flopping open revealing large fangs. His eyes were closed, and air was rasping through his throat in a soft snore. His faux diamond ear stud sparkled. He was no longer on his camo rug, but off on the linoleum floor. Maybe the hard surface made for better back muscle massage.
I moved the phone away from my mouth so Mae wouldn’t hear me. “Largeness?”
Spot stayed motionless except for opening his eyes. His lower eyelids, hanging upside down, drooped toward the top of his eyes and made him look demented.
“Duty calls,” I said, pushing my chair back from my desk.
Spot straightened out the arc of his body and rolled to his side and then onto his chest and elbows. With gravity now going the normal direction, he looked less crazed but a bit confused. He shook his head as if to shake some alertness into his brain.
“Something’s wrong,” Mae suddenly said in my ear.
“What?”
“A maroon pickup drove by a minute ago. It drove by an hour ago, too. And I think I saw it yesterday afternoon. It’s not right.” Mae’s shaky voice was back. But this time the fear was more pronounced.
“What’s not right?”
“It says ‘First Rate Dry Cleaning’ on the side. One of those stick-on signs. Magnetic or something.”
“Looking for an address to make a pickup or a delivery?” I said.
“No. This isn’t a dry-cleaning neighborhood. This is a working-class neighborhood, teachers and librarians like me, not doctors or business types who wear professionally-cleaned suits. And why would a dry cleaning business have a pickup? They always have vans. I’m worried.”
“Does it say anything else on the pickup?”
“Yes. Under the business name is a phone number.”
“What’s the area code?”
“Two one three.”
“That’s Los Angeles.”
“Oh…” Mae’s voice sounded like a moan. “No L.A. cleaner is going to be in the Bijou neighborhood.”
“If you can take a picture of the pickup from your window, do so. If it drives by again and you can zoom in and get the license plate, do that, too. But try to stay inconspicuous. I don’t want you to be seen by the driver. I’m on my way. You’ll know it’s me by my old Jeep.”
Mae gave me directions.
I opened the door. Spot got up and trotted through the opening, banging against the door jamb as if his balance needed adjustment after his upside-down meditation. We hurried down the stairs and out to the Jeep.
I drove partway across town and turned into the Bijou neighborhood on Rufus Allen Boulevard, watching for any maroon pickup. I saw none.
I drove past the library. Several turns later, I pulled up in front of two clapboard bungalows that were probably built back in the 1960s. They couldn’t be more than 600 square feet each, almost as small as my log cabin. I parked behind a white pickup truck with a roof rack that held two ladders. The pickup’s bed had custom tool boxes built into the sidewalls.
Mae had said there were two matching houses. She lived in the left house, and Daniel Callahan lived in the right one. There was a carpenter working on a broken front door at the right house.
The houses were twins with mirror-image floor plans. One was painted dark brown and the other dark green. Both had cream-colored doors and window trim. The doors were a traditional style with inset panels. The buildings appeared to be in perfect repair except for the broken door.
The front door of the left one opened, and a woman leaned her head out. She looked up and down the street and then stared at Spot, who pushed his head out the rear window. His tail thumped against the back of my seat.
She came out of the house and walked toward us.
My first thought about Mae O’Sullivan was that, while she wasn’t old, she was old-fashioned. I’m not clothing fluent, but even I could tell that this woman, who seemed in her mid-forties like me, had nevertheless time-traveled from the 1960s, an era before she was born. She wore a light blue-green paisley cotton shirt tucked into baggy blue jeans with bulging pockets spacious enough to haul any cargo a person would need to get through a decade or more without reporting back to base camp. The pants were cinched up high with a macrame belt made of hemp or baling twine. She was 5’ 8” or more, and her pant cuffs were high enough to show a lot of bare ankle. On her sockless feet were flat sandals with soles made from car tires, with thick wide leather straps that reminded me of horse bridles. Her strawberry blonde hair was long and wavy and held in place by a headband made of the same denim fabric as her pants. The one part of her wardrobe that was out of place was a large techy-looking watch on her right wrist. But even that was anchored in the ’60s by a brown leather watch band that was heavier than my belt. Mae wore no makeup that I could see. And the few strands of gray hair interwoven with the dark blonde revealed that she used no hair dye. Her skin looked Irish, ruddy like not-quite-ripe tomatoes with lots of freckles.
I got out of the Jeep and walked toward her. “You must be Mae,” I called out. “I’m Owen McKenna.”
“Thank you for coming by.” She walked over with a long athletic stride, reached out, and shook my hand. She didn’t crush my fingers, but I sensed that she could put on a serious squeeze if she wanted to. She probably weighed around 140 and telegraphed the physicality of an athlete. But the confidence that often accompanies an athletic demeanor was countered by emotional stress, her brow furrowed with worry lines. Her eyes were viridian green speckled with yellow flecks and surrounded with swollen, pink lids. It looked like she’d recently been crying and was still on the verge of tears.
Mae made a nervous glance down the street as if checking for the maroon pickup she’d described on the phone. Then she looked at the Jeep. Spot had his giant head out the window. But the levity that his presence normally creates had no effect on Mae.
“No more sightings of the maroon pickup?” I asked. “Any luck getting a photo?”
“No. I’ve been watching at the window since we talked on the phone. It never came back down the street. I can’t help but think its appearance is connected to Daniel getting beat up. I’m so worried.”
“Does Daniel still seem okay?” I asked.
“I think so. He’s kind of dozing. I told him I’d keep an eye on Ed, the carpenter, so Daniel could shut his bedroom door and sleep. I hired Ed to fix the door because I know he’s reliable. But I keep peeking into the bedroom to check on Daniel. Sometimes, he’s asleep. Sometimes, he opens his eyes and looks at me and says, ‘I’m fine.’”
“You know Daniel well?”
“We’re not close in the sense of confiding in each other. But I probably know him better than anyone else. I’ve lived in his rental now for two and a half years.”
“He owns both matching houses,” I said.
“Yes. House rich, cash poor. I get the sense that he doesn’t have much savings. I think the rent I pay and Social Security make up his entire income.”
“Does Daniel have family?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. He had a sister who died young.”
“No kids?”
Another head shake. “No. Never married. That’s all I know about his relatives. He’s very private.”
“Do you still think this wasn’t an accident? That Daniel didn’t really fall and break the door?”
“No chance. Nothing about what happened or his story makes sense. And his morose, angry mood wouldn’t fit, either. It only makes sense as a reaction to being assaulted.” Mae gestured toward the carpenter and the broken door. “Just look at the door. It’s strong. Daniel is light and frail. Even if he threw himself at the door with all his strength, he couldn’t break it like that. It was obviously kicked in by someone strong. That’s why I want you to investigate.”
I nodded. “How do you envision this going?” I asked. “Do you want to take me into his house and bring me into his bedroom?”
“No, no. I could never do that. I’m the only one allowed into his house. If I brought you in, he’d get very stern.”
“Should you bring him outside to meet me?”
“No, he wouldn’t have that, either. I thought about it after speaking to you on the phone, but I haven’t come up with a way to get him to open up to a stranger.”
“My dog Spot is in my car. He can soften the defenses of most people. Does Daniel like dogs?” I asked.
Mae frowned and shot a glance back toward the Jeep. Spot’s giant tongue did the little flick at the tip with each breath. From this distance, one couldn’t see the tiny drop of saliva that typically arced into the air with each tongue flip.
“No, I’m sorry to say Daniel hates dogs. He’s afraid of them. I think he was bitten by a dog when he was young. Even little chihuahuas make him nervous. I don’t really know how to get Daniel to talk. Maybe you could act official like you’re a social worker investigating injuries or something?”
“If he wouldn’t speak to the police, he won’t speak to me in that capacity.”
Mae nodded. “I guess you’re right. What do you think?” She turned and looked up at me with searching eyes. “You must have interviewed reluctant victims or witnesses before.”
“I think we should take a straightforward approach. We tell the truth, although perhaps we don’t volunteer all of the details.”
“But what if he refuses to talk?”
“If you can get me into his house, I’ll take it from there.”
Mae made a slow nod. “Okay. But I don’t see how this is going to work.”
I looked at the carpenter who had the broken door lying across two sawhorses. Instead of replacing the door with a stock exterior door, he was repairing the damaged one, a laborious job that would maintain the original architectural integrity. He’d removed the panel that had been broken to gain access to the lock, and he was fitting a new piece of wood into the opening. He leaned over, his thick glasses nearly touching the wood as he studied the fit.
“Here’s a plan,” I said. “The front door opening still has no door. You go inside and somehow get Daniel into the living room. I show up at the door opening. I knock on the door frame. You see me and say hi. I introduce myself and tell Daniel that I’m a private investigator and I understand he had a break-in. Then I’ll just step a little inside the doorway and see where I can go from there.”
“He’ll be upset. He’s very set in his ways, stubborn as a mule.”
“I can be stubborn, too.”
She thought about it. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
We walked up to Daniel’s front door.
“Hi Ed,” Mae said. “No need to move your tools. We’ll just slip past you.”
I nodded at Ed. Ed didn’t seem to notice me. He stayed silent.
Mae stepped into an entry room that was inset into the corner of the living room. It was small with just enough room for a vintage armoire closet and a coat rack. Hanging on the rack were several canes. Two were the lightweight type I’d seen blind people use, straight, lightweight rods, white with red bands. Two others were heavier wood, designed for taking weight. I hovered to the side of the door, out of sight from the living room, but close enough that I could hear Mae going back to Daniel’s bedroom and calling out his name.
The bedroom door must have shut because her voice became muted.
After a few minutes of mumbled sounds, Mae’s voice became clear once again.
“I’ll bring you a mug of Irish tea and some Irish soda bread, so you can just sit in your chair. That will be most comfortable for you.”
I heard some movements and then kitchen sounds. I knocked on the door jamb.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
“Just a minute,” I heard Mae call out.
I stepped in through the doorway.
“Who are you?” a man’s voice rasped.
I turned and saw a tiny frail man sitting in a rocker. He wore brown trousers, with black socks and polished black shoes such as one would wear to an important meeting in a big city. He had on a white cotton shirt with button-down collar and over it a buttoned-up cardigan sweater, gray with brown designs that looked a bit like long, slender boats. The man’s face was scarred around the eyes as if from a severe childhood burn. The scars were mottled with bruising, red with deep purple marks, which made his wispy white hair and eyebrows stand out like cirrus clouds in a sunset sky. His cloudy eyes looked a bit like flying saucers of the UFO type, the cornea of the right one larger and whiter than the left. A fresh scab showed where his flesh had popped open over one of his cheekbones. The purple had spread from a thick swollen area below his cheekbone and was radiating down into his neck. His left hand, which he cradled in the crook of his right arm, was purple and swollen and scabbed as if someone had stomped it.
“Hello, sir. My name is Owen McKenna. Your name is Daniel Callahan, correct?”
“That is my business, and this house is my castle. I’m not inviting you in.”
“I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t care who you are. Obviously, you don’t understand privacy. You’re not welcome in my house. Please leave.”
CHAPTER THREE
I ignored Callahan’s command to leave and took a step into his living room. Just behind the living room was a small dining room, and behind that a galley kitchen. The kitchen was visible through a wide window opening in the rear dining wall, similar to what I’d seen in old cafes where short-order cooks could pass food through.
The old man shouted at me. “I said leave. At once! Or I’ll call the police!”
“Be my guest, please, Mr. Callahan. Commander Mallory will be relieved to hear that I’m stepping up from the private sector to attempt to talk some sense into you. Public servants sometimes worry they’ll be accused of malfeasance. An elderly man refuses to follow their common-sense recommendation to get medical treatment following a home invasion and assault. Then, when his injuries turn out to be life-threatening and he ends up on life support, he sues, or, after he dies, his heirs sue, saying, reasonably, that the authorities should have followed their instincts. They should have ignored his wishes and taken him to the hospital. Now I’m giving the police another line of defense in front of the jury. ‘See, the old gentleman even ignored the private investigator. The case against the police is groundless.’”
Mae appeared. She held a steaming mug.
“Here’s some hot tea, Daniel. This will calm you.” The sincerity combined with her woodwind vocal tones was sweet and touching.
He waved his arm through the air as if to bat her away. “Oh, go away, Mae. Leave me alone and stop with your eternal fussing!”
Mae’s reddish complexion colored a deeper red, and tears came to her eyes.
“Tell you what, Mae,” I said. “Because Mr. Callahan insists on being abrasive and dismissive, why don’t you go home and leave him to me. I may not be able to get him to see reason. But either way, there’s no point in you putting up with such abuse.”
