Tahoe deep, p.9
Tahoe Deep, page 9
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
From inside came the sound of a baseball game, the crowd cheering, and the announcer calling the play by play.
The door opened. A large man with short, spiked, blond hair said, “Yeah?” He was as tall as me and half again as thick and looked as tough and fit as a jaguar. He held a bottle of Miller beer in his left hand. His breath suggested there were many empties somewhere nearby.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you Carter Sampson?”
He nodded.
“I’m Owen McKenna. I’m an investigator looking into an assault on your neighbor down the street. I’d like to ask you and your roommate some questions, please.”
He frowned.
“Routine neighbor stuff,” I said. “People or vehicles you may have noticed in the neighborhood. Like that.”
“This would be about Mr. Callahan, the old blind guy?”
“Yes.”
Sampson glanced over his shoulder. He called out, “Yo, Eddy, wake up. We’ve got a guy out here wants to ask some questions about your house repair client. Never mind it’s the bottom of the ninth for me and beauty-rest time for you.” Sampson lifted his bottle and drained it. He turned his head back toward the house, lifted his chin and made a sound not unlike a howling wolf. “Eddeeeeeeeeee!”
The cat jumped off the railing and disappeared around the back of the house.
“Gimme a sec,” Sampson said. He walked inside, leaving the door open. Across the living room was a giant TV. The White Sox pitcher threw a fastball. The Yankees’ batter hit it deep into left field. “Eddy!” Carter shouted from the kitchen. “Get your butt out of bed and come down here. Y’all got civic duty calling. When the cop man wants info, you best ’fess up to your crimes.”
I heard some noises. Sampson returned with a full beer, walked past me down to the end of the porch and sat on one of the wicker chairs. “I don’t need to watch the Yankees earn another kill notch on their belts.” He took a long draw of beer, his throat making cartoonish glug, glug, glug sounds.
Ed appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts and black socks inside slip-on Vans. His eyes were obscured by the thick glasses, but they looked very sleepy.
“Hi, Ed,” I said. “You and I met at Daniel Callahan’s. I’d like to ask some questions.”
He nodded, walked over, and sat in the other wicker chair.
I hitched my hip on the porch railing, one leg up and bent.
“I’m wondering about anything unusual in the neighborhood these last few days,” I said.
Carter shrugged. “Ain’t seen nothin,’” he said.
“A neighborhood has a routine and a standard cast of characters. I’m looking for the odd item. Persons. Vehicles. Arrivals and departures at unusual times. Sounds in the middle of the night.”
I watched both of them. Ed was silent and impassive. Carter Sampson drank beer.
“Sorry, dude,” Sampson said. “This neighborhood is like a dead zone in the ocean. There’s fish jumping everywhere else. But this reef is a bleached out reef. Nothing ever happens.”
“Are you a diver?”
Sampson shrugged again. “Tried it a few times. Took a lesson in Grand Cayman once. Saw these monster rays with ten-foot wingspans.”
“Have you ever dived in Tahoe?”
“Once. Went down at Emerald Bay State Park. It’s like, one of the only underwater state parks. I saw an ancient pickup sitting on the bottom. Trust me, seeing a sunken pickup is not worth freezing your ass off.”
“Do you know any divers who are interested in the Tahoe Steamer?”
“The shipwreck? No. What’s the point? Someone said it’s down so far, it’s dark down there. Nothing to see in the dark.”
“Mr. Callahan witnessed the scuttling of the Tahoe Steamer in nineteen forty. Can either of you think of anyone who has mentioned Mr. Callahan?”
Sampson shook his head and drank more beer. Ed Filusch had no reaction.
“Ed knows Mr. Callahan,” I said. “What about you, Carter? You know of him. But have you ever met him?”
“Sort of. The library lady was talking to me on the sidewalk one day when the blind dude came out of his house. She told him my name and said I was a neighbor. He just walked on by.”
“Did you get an impression of him?”
Sampson shrugged. “Just an old guy. Life is easy street for him. Being blind makes things pretty sweet. Everybody looks out for you. People have sympathy. He probably gets some kind of government handout. Plus rent money from the library lady. He never has to work a real job.”
“I bet he worked a job for decades,” I said.
“No, I mean real work,” Sampson said. “Climbing chairlift towers. Hauling cable. Lubricating bullwheels. Replacing chair cushions on thousands of chairs.”
“Does either of you hunt?” I asked, changing the subject.
“You mean, shoot Bambis?” Sampson asked. He pointed toward Ed, jabbing his finger repeatedly. “Just ask Eddy, the great hunter. He can kill those furry critters faster than you can spell ’em. Go on, Eddy. Tell the cop man about your big kills.”
I turned to Ed. “What kind of gun do you use, Ed?”
Ed was slow to respond.
“It’s a weird gun,” Sampson answered for him. “Doesn’t even use bullets. Compressed air. Who’d a thunk?”
“A pre-charged pneumatic gun?” I said, looking at Ed.
He nodded.
“We think it was a PCP that was used to shoot out Daniel’s window.”
Ed’s face showed no reaction.
“Can you think of anyone besides you who knows Mr. Callahan and also has a PCP gun?”
Ed shook his head.
Sampson said, “Takes time to get used to Mr. Talkative, here. A never-ending stream of words is Eddy.”
Ed turned his head toward Sampson. For a brief moment, he had a murderous look on his face. It was so full of emotion that I could visualize him shooting Sampson.
“Ed, what kind of PCP gun do you have?”
He took his time and then mumbled some words.
“Did you say, ‘Benjamin Marauder?’”
Ed nodded.
“Caliber?”
“Twenty-five.”
“How do you refill it?”
“A scuba tank. Three thousand PSI.”
“You can shoot a lot with the air from a scuba tank, right?”
“One scuba fill gives me fifteen rifle fills. Each rifle fill shoots twenty-four shots. That’s three hundred sixty rounds.”
“Is your rifle registered?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you choose that model?”
“It’s real quiet. I don’t like loud noises.”
“Have you fired your gun recently?”
Another nod. “There’s lots of places where you can shoot in Nevada.”
“Do you keep it here at this house?”
He nodded.
“When you’ve done work for Daniel Callahan, has he treated you fairly? Paid you promptly?”
Ed looked at the floorboards of the front porch.
“Callahan treats Ed like crapola, like he doesn’t matter,” Sampson said. “Give me a new door, here’s your money. No neighborly love there.”
I spoke to Ed. “Was Mr. Callahan mean or rude to you?”
Ed didn’t respond.
“Not so much mean,” Sampson said, once again answering for Ed. “He just ignores him. Ed stops everything to fix his house, but Callahan acts like, of course he should.”
I turned toward Sampson. “Carter, have you ever fired Ed’s gun?”
“What, now I’m a suspect?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“And if I don’t answer, you’ll tell the other cops, and they’ll think it suspicious and haul me in for questioning?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve fired Ed’s gun. And a sweet piece of equipment it is, too. Laser sights make it accurate as hell. Quiet as squishing a Robin’s egg. And the air tank lasts the better part of forever.”
“What color is the laser sight?”
“Green, natch. The red ones are practically obsolete these days. And no, I wouldn’t know how to rig an air tank to shoot a guy full of air.”
That was a surprise. “You know about the body on the beach? How did you hear?”
Sampson gave me a snide smile. “I’ve got contacts in this town. People talk, something like that happens.”
“Who told you?”
Carter thought about it. “I don’t remember. I was at a bar, I think. Guys were trading gross stories. Someone mentioned a body all blown up like a beachball.”
I turned to go. “Thanks, guys. You’ve answered my questions. Ed, it would be good not to dispose of your rifle or any related compressed air tanks or hoses in the near future. And both of you should stay in the area. Don’t suddenly decide to move away or take a long trip without telling the SLTPD about your intentions.”
“So now we’re suspects?” Carter said.
“No. But if you leave without notice or get rid of the rifle or accessories, you will be.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I called Street Casey. “Any chance you are available for a consultation this afternoon?”
“What kind would that be?” she asked, a bit of mischief in her voice.
“Well, it’s been a long, hard day, and it’s almost cocktail hour. I miss your warmth and intelligence and your common sense.”
“Common sense…,” Street said. “Every woman’s dream description.”
“Did I mention your sensuous beauty and animal heat radiating like a hot star, your gravity pulling me irresistibly closer and closer until my orbit is doomed to fall into your clutches?”
There was a pause. “Better,” she said. “You could come to my place for hors d’oeuvres. I’ve just got a few more insect samples to label and refrigerate.”
“Just to be sure… You’re not talking chocolate-covered grasshoppers, are you?”
“No. Although insects have more protein and fiber than other snacks by far, something some cultures around the world know.”
“Good for them,” I said.
“You’re not enthusiastic. That makes me think you’re coming for work, not insect treats.”
“Possibly. Not a lot of work. But a question. Something that might utilize your microscope.”
“Definitely work. Okay. Fifteen minutes?”
I stopped at my office to check for messages and then drove the short distance down Kingsbury Grade and pulled into the lot where Street had her entomology laboratory. Spot and I got out, and I retrieved the broken piece of wood from under the Jeep’s cargo mat.
As Spot and I approached her lab door, Street’s Yellow Lab, Blondie, started a frenetic barking. Not the warning kind but the anticipation kind. She couldn’t see Spot coming, but she knew anyway. For his part, Spot was doing the little bounce on his toes.
The door opened before I reached it, and Blondie shot out. She jumped up on her rear legs, hit Spot hard with her paws to his chest, and then ran into the forest knowing that Spot would give chase. Blondie also knew that despite Spot’s high speed on a straightaway, he couldn’t catch her dodging through the woods.
I gave Street a kiss and hug, and we went inside.
“Busy day?” she asked as she lifted a tray of little glass jars and carried it over to one of her fridges.
“Traumatic, actually.” I told her about meeting Mae and Daniel, and then, later, how I went to see Mallory at El Dorado Beach. I mentioned the tattooed body that turned out to be Daniel’s relative.
“And when I went back to Daniel’s house to ask about the dead man, his assailant called on a burner phone that he’d left in the couch. In order to get Daniel to talk, he threatened Daniel and then shot out his living room window while…”
“Owen! What are you saying?! You’ve been shot at!”
“Just one shot that we know of.”
“My God, Owen, is everyone okay? Daniel and the woman? Mae? Is she okay?”
“Yes. They were both pretty upset. But I think she and Daniel are both okay. He’s staying at her house.”
“What about his house?”
“The local handyman fixed his door. I imagine he will replace the window as well.”
Street looked traumatized herself, her brow a deep network of lines.
I hugged her for a long minute.
“The shooter could have followed you!” she suddenly said. “Blondie and Spot are in the woods! We should get them inside!”
“I don’t think you need to worry,” I said as I walked to her door. “The whole point of the shooting was to scare Daniel into telling what he knows. It worked. Daniel explained all that he remembered. Nevertheless, we can bring our animal friends closer to the cave entrance.”
I stepped outside and used the whistle that means treats. There was no response. I walked to the edge of the building and whistled again.
This time, Spot and Blondie came running up. They were panting from effort, but still had plenty of energy. Blondie was jumping up and giving Spot double-paw hits to his chest.
Once inside, I shut and locked Street’s door. Street got the dogs calmed a bit.
“I’m so sorry for all of you,” Street said. “Maybe you should just sit and have a drink and a hot shower.”
“Yeah.”
“But first, what did you want to check out?” Street asked.
I picked up the broken wood from where I’d set it on the floor just inside her door. “This is a piece of Daniel Callahan’s front door. It’s from where the door was kicked in.” I held up the wood, angling it so Street’s ceiling lights would give it illumination. “I noticed that there are a couple of threads caught in the broken wood splinters. From their placement, it occurred to me that they could be from the assailant’s sock or pants cuff. I wondered if you could look at the threads under one of your microscopes. If you could get a closeup photo of the threads, maybe I could show them to a person who knows fabric. I doubt it could lead anywhere, but you never know.”
Street reached for the wood and looked at it up close. She frowned. “I see. Let me have a look under the scope.”
Street took the broken wood over to one of her microscopes, a type with two eyepieces for a 3D image so she could see insects in glorious magnification. She had other microscopes that she used to look at slides with invisible cells, amoebas or whatever. This microscope was for the bigger little stuff. She rolled back the lens device so that it wouldn’t get damaged, and positioned the frayed, splintered wood under it. Bit by bit, she turned the knob that brought the lens closer.
“I see some wood splinters,” she said. “And some threads.” She turned another knob. “Zooming in, I see they are fabric threads. Let me go closer.” She turned the knob another notch. “Lots of stuff, here. Mostly, it’s detritus. Lint and chunks of organic matter. Ah, here we are. I’ve found a bug.”
“Insects in the wood? From the burglar’s sock, maybe.”
“Maybe. But it’s not an insect. It looks like a mite.”
I had heard the word before, but I didn’t know what it meant. “What’s a mite?”
“A mite is an arachnid. Not an insect. It’s distantly related to spiders and scorpions. This guy looks like a type of mite that attacks citrus. It’s called a Silver mite.” She stared through the binocular eyepieces, adjusting another knob.
“Because it’s silver colored?”
“No. Silver mites attack lemons. They get their name because they cause the lemon peel to become silvery.”
“So this is one of the infamous bugs that attacks our food supply,” I said.
“Yeah. They are a problem, but not as bad as their cousins, the Rust mites.”
“Named because they make lemon peels rusty?”
“You could be an arachnid specialist,” she said.
“Are they ugly?”
“Well, you’re talking to an entomologist,” she said. “So my idea of beauty is not shared by many.”
“But you could still make a judgement. Are these mites ugly?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine spending much time near something like mites.” I said.
“Don’t be too turned off. Most people have mites living on them. Demodex mites live in your eyelash follicles.”
“Live in them?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“You’re saying I have bugs living in my eyelids? Or they live in other people’s eyelids?”
“In most people’s eyelids. You probably wouldn’t want to know the details.”
“Sure, I would.”
“I’m not so sure,” Street said.
“Try me.”
“Is this a dare?” Street stared at me.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. First I should say that Demodex mites are very small.”
“I figured as much. So nothing they do could be that unsettling.”
“The mites can leave your eyelash follicles and crawl around on your eyelids. Especially at night when you sleep. They like the dark. But mostly they live inside your eyelash follicles.”
“Inside.”
Street nodded. “Right.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“It means that while inside your eyelash follicles, they do all the stuff of living. They eat. Dead skin cells, mostly. They excrete in your follicles. They mate, lay their eggs, all that sort of stuff.”
“Wait. You’re saying that mites have sex while they are inside my eyelash follicles.”
Street made a solemn nod.
“You’re right. I didn’t want to know all that.”
