“Yes. I knew what Jacky was doing was bad, just like on the show. But nothing I said made any difference. Anyway, it was just a game.”

  “When you say it was just a game, what exactly do you mean?” I asked.

  Mr. Wormack looked puzzled. “I don’t know what else to call it. Jacky didn’t tell me much. They get together and play the game on the computer. But sometimes they go to certain places in the game. There’s different versions. The game Jacky played was called Shipwreck Treasure. He said it was virtually like real life, whatever that means.”

  “When Jacky played, where did he go to use the computer?”

  “I think it varied. But mostly it was where he used to lived in Sacramento. He rented a room in a house. But then the landlord raised the rent, so Jacky moved back home with me. We’re very close.”

  “What are the rules of the game?”

  “Well, pretty much anything goes, even death. But it has to make logical sense. So you can’t just kill anyone. You have to have a good reason. Jacky said it has to fit Mars Logic.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If a person from Mars came and watched, would they understand what the players do? They would if it made sense. So you can’t do things just ’cause you want. It has to fit Mars Logic.”

  “Do lots of people die in the Shipwreck Treasure game?”

  “I don’t know. But Jacky said there was a rule about shrinking. They had to shrink the gang as the game went on.”

  “How many players are there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What determines when someone wins the game?”

  “When someone finds the treasure, that person wins. Or if there are two people, they are co-winners.”

  “Did Jacky say if any other players had died?”

  “Just Colin. Jacky had to kill him. Now Jacky’s dead. I think the game rules are strange.”

  “Do you know the names of anyone else in this game?”

  “Not the human names, no.”

  “Do you know where any of them live?”

  “No. But Jacky sometimes goes to Lemon Hills to pick up a load. He’s a produce trucker. He sometimes sleeps overnight in Lemon Hills. So maybe some of the players lived there. Maybe he sleeps at their house.”

  “Can you think of any other details about the game? Anything Jacky said?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He paused, stared at the old black-and-white soap opera, and frowned.

  “You said you don’t know the players’ human names. Do they have other names?”

  “They have titles. Jacky talked about them a lot. There’s the diver, the enforcer, the scientist, and the foster brother.”

  “Which one is Jacky?” I asked.

  “Oh, I forgot to say his game name. He’s the cleaner.”

  “But you don’t know the names of any of the people who go with the other titles?”

  “No.” He frowned. “I kind of remember who plays the enforcer. The name was like Boss.”

  “Bosstro? The Bosstro brothers?”

  “Yeah.”

  As the man talked, it seemed that a possible explanation for his strange tale was that Jacky wanted to have someone to talk to about his treasure-hunting activities. Perhaps Jacky knew his father was a bit on the far side of common sense. Jacky might have presented what he did as if it was part of a fantastical, grand game.

  “How did Jacky become part of this game?”

  Mr. Wormack suddenly seemed more engaged. “That’s what I wanted to know. So Jacky told me all about it. He told his roommate about the soap opera treasure hunter from TV when he was kid. Then his roommate said his great grandfather was a man who once owned a great treasure, but it was stolen from him.”

  “Did Jacky’s roommate tell him the name of the man?”

  “Yes. I remember the man’s first name was Jack because it was the same as my Jack. But I don’t remember the last name. Jacky said the man was rich.”

  I thought about what Daniel Callahan had said. When he was a boy and he overheard his sister Nora and her friend Frank, Frank had mentioned a robber and murderer named Jack Questman. “Could his last name be Questman?”

  Mr. Wormack’s eyes widened. “Yes, that sounds familiar. Jack Questman. Now I remember that Jacky said he was on a Questman quest.”

  “And Jack Questman’s treasure was stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the treasure?”

  Wormack shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think my son knows, either.”

  “How did Jacky’s roommate learn about it? He probably hadn’t been born yet when his great grandfather was still alive.”

  Wormack nodded. “Sometimes fathers tell their children things. And the kids tell their kids. People remember a story about a great treasure.”

  “Did Jacky ever learn who they thought stole Questman’s loot?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the name of Jack’s roommate? The man who told him about the treasure?”

  “No.”

  “Could it be the man he had to kill? Colin Callahan?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why do you think Jack went to Tahoe to search for treasure?”

  “Jack met a man who knew about a ship that sunk. The man said there was treasure on that ship. Jack was smitten.”

  “Could that man have been Colin?”

  Mr. Wormack frowned. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Where else did the players live?”

  Wormack shrugged. “Just Lemon Hills, I think.”

  “You said that Jacky maybe stayed there when he was driving his truck. Do you have any idea of where in Lemon Hills?”

  “No.”

  “Was there any other place Jacky talked about besides Lemon Hills?”

  “Just Tahoe. He just said he was going to Tahoe to get rich.”

  “When they release Jacky’s body, do you want to take possession of it?”

  Mr. Wormack was silent for a long moment. “No. I don’t care what you do. I want to be left alone. It’s just a game.”

  When I opened the apartment door to leave, I turned and faced Mr. Wormack. In the dim light of the entry, his blue eyes looked foggy. He was confused to some degree, of that I was certain. But the confusion didn’t seem to trouble him as it did some old people. What did seem to trouble him was his sadness. His wife Mabel had died. Jacky had taken up some of that emotional space. Now Jacky died. Mr. Wormack said he had no friends. He was all alone. His confusion would multiply. He wasn’t fortunate like Daniel Callahan, who had Mae.

  “Thank you for your time, sir,” I said.

  Mr. Wormack made a little nod and shut the door behind me.

  The Jeep was still running, but the driver’s door was open. Spot was still in back. It had happened before. Probably, a kid saw the running vehicle and thought he could take it for a ride. So he jumped in and was about to drive off, when he realized there was a giant dog in the back seat. Maybe the dog growled. Or maybe the dog just lifted his head - a head the size of a basketball - and sniffed the kid on his neck. The kid jumped out and ran for his life.

  As I drove back to Tahoe, I went over the likely sequence.

  Colin Callahan, whose parents died young, inherited letters written by his aunt’s aunt. From those letters, he deduced a treasure that the first aunt created when she killed her boyfriend on the Tahoe Steamer, which was scuttled shortly afterward.

  Then Callahan met Brand Morse. It was probably Brand who had the great grandfather named Jack Questman, who’d gained and then lost a fortune through theft and possibly murder. Colin’s aunt’s aunt, Nora Callahan, wrote letters that revealed she’d come to have a fortune because her boyfriend had stolen Questman’s stolen property.

  Brand Morse and Colin Callahan had decided to find the intersection of these two people, learn where the treasure might be all these decades later, and take it for themselves.

  But it was likely that they made the mistake of talking to others. Jacky Wormack, who had business in Lemon Hills, probably told the Bosstro brothers. They may have developed an agreement. The Bosstro brothers would provide intimidation and enforcement as needed.

  At least one of the men figured out that Daniel Callahan was that intersection point, and they went to put the squeeze on him for information regarding what his older sister did with the treasure. Then, they realized that Colin Callahan was expendable. So they killed him to reduce the number of ways the treasure would be split and also because his death would intimidate the old blind man and motivate him to talk.

  Complicating the plan was a foster brother in the Bosstro household 30 years ago. At one extreme, the foster brother could be the leader and, at the other extreme, a mere apparition dancing in the ether.

  If the foster brother existed, I had no idea who he was or even if I’d met or heard of him.

  I drove through the enveloping night, heading toward the foothills on the east side of the Central Valley and then up the mountains toward Tahoe.

  I went through everyone I’d met from the beginning. There was Ivan Manfred, the Ink Maestro, tattoo artist who seemed all fluff and self-importance and who, despite being a painter, didn’t even notice that Colin Callahan’s tattoo was based on a famous German painting. There was Officer Holden, the tatted-up SLTPD policeman who sang Manfred’s praises and probably put Mallory onto Manfred as a consultant. There were all of Daniel Callahan’s neighbors, some of whom I’d met, and some of whom seemed to have grievances against Callahan. Everyone agreed that he was not the most pleasant fellow much of the time. The neighbors I had met were Ed Filusch, the silent handyman and his roommate Carter Sampson, the boisterous blowhard who didn’t like Callahan for reasons that were unclear.

  My Tahoe Steamer Festival had been a great success if measured by the underwater murder of Daniel Callahan’s assailant and a victim who came complete with ID. But unless I could find a connection between Jacky Wormack and one of the other people, I still didn’t have a murderer.

  The air rushing in our open windows cooled Spot and probably calmed him as well. But it did nothing to quell my confusion.

  Spot eventually pulled his head in from the window and lay down on the back seat. I eventually closed the windows as I climbed up to cooler elevations. But I found no calm.

  I found myself thinking about all the divers who’d been at Glenbrook Bay, some serious about seeing what the remote operated vehicle might bring up from the depths. Some might have wanted to steal the goods, even though the decoy package that the company had put in the ROV’s robot arm was never taken. Yet other divers may have just wanted to be part of the excitement, a high-altitude diving adventure that they would, one day, talk about with their grandchildren.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The next morning, my phone rang. I answered it.

  “Hey, Owen, this is Ivan Manfred, the Ink Maestro calling. Heard something you will want to know.”

  “Can you tell me over the phone, or do I need to stop by?”

  “Phone works for me. I had a man stop by today. He asked if I ink tattoos to look like a painting. I said not really. He said he knew an artist in Sacramento who did tattoos of paintings. Said his work was great but he was a jerk. So when this guy heard that I was a nice guy, he wondered if I could do what he wanted.”

  “Which was what?”

  “He wanted the Mona Lisa inked on his butt.”

  “And you declined?”

  “Yeah. I’m a painter. I could do a fabulous painting of Mona baby. But like every other inker, I can’t make a painting look good as a tattoo. Unlike every other inker, I have standards and ethics. So I’m forced to turn down jobs. Even if the man has a hot butt. But still... Then I remembered that you would want to know. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the customer’s name. But I asked who this other inker was who does painting tats. He told me his name is Wilbur Neally Lopez. Strange name, so I had him write it down. The business name is Sick Tats and Craft Brews.”

  “Sick? Oh, sick like the bomb? Like awesome?”

  “Right! I guess you’re not as square as you look.”

  “Wilbur Neally Lopez,” I said. “Thanks a bunch.”

  “A bunch?” The Ink Maestro said. “I take it back. You’re as square as all those other cops.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said.

  “While I’ve got you on the line,” he said. “Have you thought any more about your hound sitting for a painting? He is the cutest boy.”

  “I haven’t had a chance. But I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  We said goodbye and hung up. I looked up Sick Tats and dialed.

  “Sick Tats, Jasmine speaking.” She spoke American vernacular but with an Hispanic accent. Like her parents might be first-generation immigrants, but she was born here.

  “Hey, Jasmine. Will around?”

  “I’m sorry, he’s recently left our employ.”

  “Really? And he didn’t even tell me? What’s that about? Do you have his contact info?”

  “Sorry, Mr...”

  “Alejandro. Just the one word. Like Prince.”

  “Sorry Alejandro. Is Will a personal friend?” She sounded doubtful.

  I decided to make a guess, which would have enough specificity to encourage her cooperation. “I’ve known Will since he was in the third grade and I was assigned to be his mentor for our Freshman project. I got an A, and Will got a mentor for life. We haven’t had much contact recently. Frankly, I’m calling because I want one of those tats that looks like a painting. I have the painting already picked out, a Diego Rivera. I want it across my back. Price is no object.”

  “Then Will is certainly not your man. You are Yankee, and Will went to third grade in Costa Rica.” She hung up on me.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Daniel Callahan spent two days in the hospital. For general observation, they said. Nothing specific. When you take a man in his mid-nineties - a man who can’t swim - and throw him into water cold enough to stop his heart and then keep him there until he’s hypothermic and past the point of shivering, it might be a good idea to watch him closely for a time.

  Mae and Street and I visited Daniel the third morning. He was propped up in bed, wearing the aviator mirrors. His hair was wild and going in all directions. He looked like an aging rock star.

  “Is your hound in your car?” Daniel asked when we walked into his room.

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t properly thanked him for saving my life. Bring him in. Please.”

  “I thought you were afraid of dogs,” I said.

  “I am. I’m bracing myself. And with you nearby, I’ll probably be safe.”

  “One can’t just bring dogs into the hospital,” I said. Spot had been up to see Diamond when he was recovering from multiple gunshots a couple of years before. But Diamond’s cop status had created a sense of authority, and the staff did not want to object.

  “I’m certain you can bring dogs,” Daniel said. “They’re allowed everywhere these days.” Daniel pressed his signal button.

  A nurse came in the door. “You need assistance?”

  Daniel nodded, then waved her over. He spoke softly.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” the nurse said.

  “Bend closer,” Daniel said.

  She put her ear near his mouth. He spoke for ten seconds.

  The nurse straightened up and said to me, “Sir, a therapy dog is welcome in our hospital. The last therapy dog was so cute. Yvette, the Yorkie. Her handler carried her in a little doggie basket.” She turned to me. “So bring your dog. Bring him in your doggie basket, if you like.”

  I nodded, smiled briefly at Street, and left, muttering that my doggie basket is barely big enough to carry the doggie biscuits.

  “Excuse me?” the nurse said.

  “Never mind.”

  I went out, fetched His Largeness, and brought him into the hospital. They were wheeling two people and their wheelchairs into the elevator, so Spot and I took the stairs. Three different times, people gasped, one with alarm, two with delight.

  When we walked into Daniel’s room, he immediately realized we were there.

  “Come, Spot, come,” he bravely said, patting the bed. He took off his sunglasses. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe he thought he’d be safer if my dog could see him without his cover, as if Spot would recognize him sooner. His flying saucer eyes looked toward Spot. I sensed Daniel’s worry. His jaw muscles bulged.

  Spot looked up at me. I let go of his collar. “You’ve been summoned, boy. Best you obey.”

  Spot took two steps toward Daniel’s bed. His tail was on medium speed.

  Daniel held out his hand. Spot sniffed it. At the touch of the cold wet nose, Daniel jerked his hand back. Then he reached out again. Soon, Daniel was caressing the side of Spot’s jaw and then rubbing his ears. Spot twisted his head and leaned into it. He glanced at me as if I should take note of Daniel’s technique.

  A nurse came, saw Spot and gasped, then gathered her wits and said that the doctor had okayed Daniel for immediate discharge.

  Daniel said, “I’ve steeled myself to doctors and nurses and beast. I’m ready to face the world.”

  A half hour later, we accompanied Daniel as a nurse wheeled him out of the hospital in a chair. He was fully dressed. His aviators were back on.

  We helped him stand up, me on one side and Mae on the other, while Street held the chair. Daniel tried to shake us off. “You two treat me like I’m an old geezer.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re treating you like you’re an old curmudgeon. According to the manual, geezers are befuddled. You’ve never demonstrated befuddlement. But curmudgeons are cranky. They rant. And complain. And they harass and dismiss their caregivers. All your forte. You’re clearly a curmudgeon. A curmudgeon, I might add, whose hair is all mussed up.”

  “What? I’ve lost my comb.” He reached up the hand that held his navigation cane. He used that hand to smooth his hair. Which made the cane stab me in the side.

 

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