Tahoe Ice Grave Read online

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE HEAT

  “WILL KEEP READERS TURNING THE PAGES AS OWEN RACES TO CATCH A VICIOUS KILLER...”

  - Booklist

  “A RIVETING THRILLER... HARD TO PUT DOWN”

  - Midwest Book Review

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE NIGHT

  “BORG HAS WRITTEN ANOTHER WHITE-KNUCKLE THRILLER...A sure bet for mystery buffs waiting for the next Robert B. Parker and Lee Child novels”

  - Library Journal

  “AN ACTION-PACKED THRILLER WITH A NICE-GUY HERO, AN EVEN NICER DOG...”

  - Kirkus Reviews

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE AVALANCHE

  “BORG IS A SUPERB STORYTELLER...A MASTER OF THE GENRE”

  - Midwest Book Review

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE SILENCE

  WINNER BEN FRANKLIN AWARD

  BEST MYSTERY OF THE YEAR!

  ONE OF THE FIVE BEST MYSTERIES OF THE YEAR!

  - Library Journal

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE KILLSHOT

  “A WONDERFUL BOOK...FASCINATING CHARACTERS, HARD-HITTING ACTION”

  Mystery News

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE ICE GRAVE

  “BAFFLING CLUES... CONSISTENTLY ENTERTAINS”

  - Kirkus Reviews

  “A CLEVER PLOT... RECOMMEND THIS MYSTERY”

  Booklist

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE BLOWUP

  “RIVETING... A MUST READ FOR MYSTERY FANS!”

  Addison, Illinois Public Library

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE DEATHFALL

  “THRILLING, EXTENDED RESCUE/CHASE”

  - Kirkus Reviews

  “HIGHLY LIKABLE CHARACTERS”

  - San Jose Mercury News

  TAHOE ICE GRAVE

  By

  Todd Borg

  Published by Thriller Press at Smashwords

  Copyright 2001 Todd Borg

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Thriller Press, a division of WRST, Inc. www.thrillerpress.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real locales, establishments, organizations or events are intended only to give the fiction a sense of verisimilitude. All other names, places, characters and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Thriller Press, P.O. Box 551110, South Lake Tahoe, CA 96155.

  Library of Congress Card Number: 2002100524

  ISBN: 978-1-931296-13-7

  Cover design by Keith Carlson.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  TAHOE ICE GRAVE

  PROLOGUE

  Thos Kahale stood naked in the snow near Rubicon Point on the west side of Lake Tahoe. It was six in the morning the second Sunday in January. The sun would not rise for over an hour. A cold gale blew from the northeast and the dark, white-capped waves were pushed into five-foot breakers by an angry wind.

  Although the ice-cold lake and its perimeter of snow-covered mountains were nothing like Kauai, the Hawaiian island where Thos was born and raised, the waves strangely reminded him of home.

  He shut his eyes and went there in his mind.

  He was on a tiny crescent of beach down below the cliffs of Princeville where wealthy tourists played golf and spoke of their helicopter rides into the cloud-shrouded caldera of Mt. Waiale’ale, the volcano that is the rainiest spot on earth.

  The breakers crashing onto the beach were the legendary waves of Hawaii, traveling across three thousand miles of open ocean. They hit the undersea volcanic uprising and were thrust twenty-five feet up into the sky before they curled over and made the turquoise tunnels that put surfing champions to the ultimate test.

  Thos Kahale was one of those champions until a freak accident on a huge wave. The board twisted, Thos went up, and the monster wave pounded him down onto the bottom so hard that he broke his femur. It took Thos’s enormous reserve of will and strength to fight the rip currents and drag himself back up onto the beach.

  What he was about to do now would require even more willpower. But it was the only recourse his honor left him.

  Dawn was just beginning to color the cloudy sky a rose gray as Thos walked into Lake Tahoe.

  He knew the water’s temperature was 36 degrees and he had prepared himself for the shock. Even still, it seemed to rip his breath out of him. The waves hit him hard and splashed ice water onto his abdomen, then his chest. He pushed on, toes digging into the sand. Soon, he was swimming.

  Thos knew about hypothermia. He understood how the water sucked heat out of the body rendering the muscles impotent. He knew he had about two minutes before he would succumb to the cold and be unable to move. His only desire was to get far enough out. He’d studied the map that showed the bottom of the lake. If he swam hard, he’d make it to the correct spot before two minutes were up. Whatever happened, the outcome of his swim was certain.

  Thos thrust into the water with strong arms and legs. At first, he made good speed heading out into the savage waves. But as the seconds ticked by his movements slowed. Despite his thick, well-muscled body, the cold sapped his strength. His limbs grew lethargic.

  Thos turned and took a sighting on two points of land. They were dimly lit by the dawn. From his study of the map, he knew he had to swim until they lined up. He had 40 yards to go. He turned back toward the dark open lake and redoubled his effort. Once he made it, he could die in peace.

  His swimming slowed to a crawl. His arms and legs were barely moving. 30 yards. A shiver went through his trunk but never made it out into his frozen limbs. 20 yards. He commanded his muscles to move but they didn’t respond. Thos focused his will with the same intensity that had won him three surfing championships. His arms no longer moved, but his legs still made a feeble motion. 10 yards.

  Thos never felt the rifle shot.

  The bullet entered the back of his skull, mushrooming on impact. Hot, deformed lead created a shock wave that destroyed Thos Kahale’s brain before blowing a large exit-hole out of his forehead.

  ONE

  I was cross-country skiing a quarter mile up above my cabin, to the side of last fall’s forest fire burn, when I saw Street Casey pull her VW Beetle into my drive. As she got out I whistled.

  Street looked up and scanned the mountain for several seconds before she saw me waving. She waved back. Spot, my Harlequin Great Dane, saw her and bounded down the mountain ahead of me. He kicked up white clouds of snow that sparkled against the deep blue backdrop of Lake Tahoe.

  I watched for a moment and then concentrated on what I was doing as I came to a steep pitch. Although my wide back-country skis have the full mountaineering boot and binding setup, they are designed for touring and offer little control on the steeps compared to standard downhill equipment. As my speed picked up I got down into a tuck, not because of aerodynamics, but because Street was watching.

  The trail steepens further and then makes a turn to the right. If you miss the turn, you hit trees head on. If you make the turn, you still might hit trees, just different ones. In the back country, as in developed ski areas, the first rule is never to hit trees because they always win.

  I made the turn carrying more speed than I should have. But the woman of my dreams was watching, so I had little choice what with my Y chromosomes being in con
trol and mandating a plethora of flawed behaviors.

  Compared to the bright sun on the snow, it was dark in the trees and hard to see. I hit a little lip and went airborne. When I reconnected with the snow, only my left ski was in the groove of the track while my right ski had suddenly decided to secede from the union. The resulting somersault was impressive.

  Street and Spot were running across the road as I came sliding down the snow bank on my back. Spot made it to me first and, wagging furiously, jumped his 170 pounds directly on top of me.

  “My God, Owen! Are you all right?” Street called out.

  I fended Spot off, stood up and shook myself off. “Never better,” I replied. I bent and kissed her. “A move I’ve been practicing. What do you think?”

  “I think they should make you get a learner’s permit until you can steer better.”

  “But I missed the trees.”

  She reached up and pulled a small branch and a bundle of pine needles from the fold in my knit cap. “You mean you missed their trunks.”

  “Critical part,” I said.

  Street looked up at me, shook her head and smiled. The sun glinted off her cheekbones and added highlights to her hair which had recently been black but was now a more natural auburn. Street had never used much makeup, preferring to let the little acne scars show. But now it seemed that whatever she used to do that made her cheekbones look severe was gone. Her eyes were softer as well. She looked ravishing. There was a new lightness to her movements, a playfulness in her smile, as if it were May instead of mid-January.

  Street had been on the mend – two parts physical, eight parts psychological – since her kidnapping last fall, and today for the first time I saw that the tension was gone from her shoulders. It had been a long climb back from the hell of the mine shaft with the forest fire raging above.

  For months, every lock was checked five times. She never answered the door unless it was someone she knew and even then she held a can of pepper spray behind her back. The pepper spray stayed under her pillow when she slept and went with her during late-night trips to the bathroom. Spot never left her side even when she was at work at her insect lab. And I’d virtually moved into her condo. We only came up to my cabin when she found time to take a day off.

  Today was one of those days. She had told me earlier that she had a morning appointment in Reno and wanted to go alone. Not even Spot was invited along for the ride.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “My little road trip? Fine. No abductions. Not even one forest fire.” She walked across the mountain drive that I share with my five ritzy neighbors, reached into the open window of her VW Bug and pulled out a bag. “It’s so warm and sunny, I thought we could have a picnic out on your deck.” She handed me the bag. “Look inside. I brought you a surprise.”

  I opened the bag and saw a baguette, a block of cheddar cheese, an apple, an orange and a bottle of wine. The silver label gave it away before I could pull the bottle out. “Silver Oak Cab! What’s the occasion?”

  Street grinned. “We’re celebrating my independence. In fact, I’m going to try to sleep alone again.”

  “Not even Spot is staying with you?”

  Street gave me that universal steely grin of determination and confidence, like that of a pilot who, after a long recuperation from a crash, has finally decided to get back into the cockpit and take off into the sky. “I’m going to go solo again.”

  “At least the wine will keep me warm now that I’m being banished to my own bed.”

  “Spot can keep you warm,” she said. At the sound of his name, he stuck his snout into her palm and pushed her hand around.

  I shook my head. “The first paragraph in the Great Dane Handbook says never to let your Dane on your bed. If you do, he’ll take it over and you’ll end up sleeping on the couch.”

  “But your little cabin doesn’t have a couch.”

  “That’s why it is so important.” We were talking around her decision instead of discussing it directly, but it made sense to keep things light.

  “Here, I brought you something else.” She reached into the back of the VW and pulled out a flimsy cardboard box. “I saw this in the window of a little boutique in Reno and thought you had to have it.” She handed it to me.

  I opened the box and lifted out a contraption made of black wire curved into graceful arcs, and small flat pieces of metal cut into rounded, abstract shapes. The flat pieces were all painted black except for one which was fire-engine red. Each curved wire had a flat piece attached to one end like an abstract leaf at the end of a branch. Some of the pieces were tangled with one another. I freed them and set the device on the roof of Street’s car.

  “It’s a Calder mobile!” The various components hung from each other, and they bobbed and danced and turned back and forth in a complex motion.

  “It doesn’t even say which of his mobiles it’s supposed to be,” Street said. “So it could be one of those illegal knockoffs. In which case, maybe I shouldn’t have bought it.”

  “Thanks so much.” I bent down and kissed Street on her temple, one of those sacred spots on her body with delicate skin and a soft caress of hair. “I love it.” I picked it up, the wires and pancakes bouncing and gyrating.

  I picked up the wine with my other hand. Spot ignored the mobile, but his eyes followed the wine as if it might be a treat for him. “Shall I fetch the corkscrew or just have his largeness bite the neck off the bottle?”

  “Corkscrew,” she said. “And a knife.” She took the bag from me and walked out onto my deck.

  I joined her a few minutes later.

  The January air was cool, but the 7200-foot altitude of my deck made for a hot sun. In minutes, I’d stripped down to my T-shirt while Street, ever warm with her high-speed metabolism, took off her jacket and snow boots. She had on pale yellow anklets that showed her perfect ankles and three inches of skin below her tight black pants. My heartbeat immediately went up into the workout range. I’d read about the medicinal effects of red wine on strained hearts, so I busied myself with the corkscrew.

  “To flying solo,” I toasted after I poured the wine. My throat constricted at the thought of Street and me separating and going back to our own abodes after living together these last few months, but I didn’t show it.

  While I drank the amazing vintage, Street moistened her lips and maybe even her tongue with the precious elixir. It wasn’t that she didn’t like fine wine. But Street’s rough childhood had made her an adult who was all about control when it came to appetites, both the good ones and the bad ones. Maybe I was an appetite as well.

  Street started slicing the cheese.

  Ever the opportunist, Spot nosed over next to her. I lowered my glass and gave him a dirty look. He took the hint and lay down on the edge of the deck. From where I sat it looked like his nose was directly over the lake, a thousand feet below.

  “Did you hear about the murder Sunday over on Rubicon Point?” Street asked as she tore off a miniature piece of bread, broke a corner off a cheese slice and set them delicately into her mouth. “It was on the radio again this morning.”

  I nodded as I ate. “I stopped at the office this morning and had a message on my machine. It was the victim’s mother from what I could understand, but she was very stressed and her words were hard to hear. I called back but got her machine. So I left my home number.”

  “She wanted to hire you?” Street asked. She picked up the knife and began cutting up the apple into small boats.

  “Not sure. She wanted to meet with me. Apparently she got my name from Diamond Martinez. What did the radio say about the murder? It seems that each day I only catch the tail end of the reports.”

  “Just that the victim was male and was shot in the head. What I didn’t understand was something about the body being naked and found in the lake.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  Street stood up and stretched her arms up above her head in that way that made her shirt rise up and rev
eal her flat midriff. I got a flash of her navel and thought that I should stop studying about art and learn how to make art. Street would be a spectacular subject. Manet’s Olympia was trailer trash by comparison.

  “I’m going to get a glass of water,” Street said. “Want some?”

  Just then the phone chirped from inside the cabin.

  “I can get it,” Street said. She went inside and was gone for what seemed like a long while.

  Her face was distressed when she came back. “It’s the murder victim’s mother. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Why such a concerned look?” I said. “Was she rude to you?”

  “No. But she sort of blurted out something disturbing. She’s obviously very distraught.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that before her son was murdered he’d written a suicide note.”

  TWO

  I went inside and picked up the phone. “Hello, Owen McKenna speaking.”

  “Mr. McKenna, my name is Janeen Kahale, Th...Thos Kahale’s mother.” She pronounced the last name ‘Ka-ha-lay.’ Her voice shook. “I would like your help. Will you please come and see me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Would it be too soon to meet at four o’clock today?” she asked.

  “That would be fine,” I said. “Where do you live?”

  “Do you know Spring Creek Road under Mt. Tallac?”

  “Yes.”

  “Near the end, Cornice Road angles off to the right. Take that about two hundred yards. We’re the middle of the three driveways.”