Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) Page 17

  After a couple of minutes, one of Ellie’s dogs made a soft bark outside the door.

  Ellie jumped up with the energy of a young woman and opened the door. “Oh, my, three very wet and dirty hounds on the porch, smelling like, well, wet hounds. Time to get them back to the kennel and clean them up before I let them back in the house. You may stay or go as you wish.”

  “I’ll head back up the mountain. Thanks so much for your help.”

  I went out with Ellie, collected Spot, and said goodbye.

  “Respect,” Ellie said. “That’s the key to gaining anyone’s trust. Especially little, old, white-haired, eccentric ladies.”

  “Got it,” I said. I bent over, kissed her cheek, and left.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Because Emerald Bay was closed due to avalanche hazard, it wouldn’t be easy to get to Hurricane Bay from the South Shore. So I drove the Gold Country highway north from Ellie’s to Interstate 80, and took that up and over Donner Summit. When I dropped back down to Truckee, I took 89 south to Tahoe City and continued on to Lassitor’s neighborhood.

  I turned up the eccentric lady’s road and parked in the street in full view of her cabin.

  I paused a moment, remembering the things that Ellie Ibsen had told me about showing respect, then got out. I let Spot out of the back, and we walked up to the cabin.

  We trudged through the snow and walked up the three front steps and knocked on her door. I was careful to make my knock loud enough to be obvious but not so loud as to be insistent. I even tried to space my raps with the same goal. Not too demanding, not too meek.

  There was no response, which was no surprise. After my previous attempt to talk to her the day before, I hadn’t expected her to answer.

  After a minute or more, I knocked again. Again, she didn’t answer.

  I had no idea if she was home. There was no sound. But she’d been home the previous time I’d knocked and gotten no response. Time to do what Ellie suggested. Start talking. That would draw her curiosity. Or maybe her ire.

  I moved back from the door, brushed the snow off the first step, took off my gloves and sat on them so that the snow and ice wouldn’t melt into the seat of my pants. I faced sideways, my upper body turned so that my head faced the door at an angle and I could be heard through the door.

  My first words were nothing significant. I figured that she might not be close enough to hear them clearly. She might not even realize that the low tones coming from outside her door were from me speaking. So I made my first words about the weather and the time of day and how long it takes to drive around the lake from my place, which was almost exactly on the opposite side of the water.

  I wanted my first words to simply establish that I was talking and give her time to quietly come near the door to figure out what I was doing. I figured that she’d be curious about what was happening on her doorstep. And if she looked out her window and saw Spot sniffing in her drive, that would help.

  I spoke softly with the goal of reassuring her, convincing her that I meant no stress.

  Periodically, cars went by on the highway, their sound competing with my voice. At those moments, I spoke a little louder.

  Eventually, as Ellie had suggested, I worked my little speech around to my line of work.

  “Anyway, I’m a cop. Well, not technically a cop anymore. I was with the San Francisco Police Department for twenty years, and worked my way up to Homicide Inspector. I liked the work, felt like I was doing an important thing in society. Of course, much of the time cops feel like they’re spinning their wheels. You get a case that you can crack, and you mostly end up filling out reams of paperwork, satisfying all the rules, organizing evidence, and trying to get the warrants and such. I always tried to work by the letter of the law. Meantime, the bad guy sometimes disappears. It can be beyond frustrating.

  “Worse, sometimes you manage to put the collar on the bad guy and bring him in. Everybody including his mother knows he’s the bad guy, and there’s no doubt that the only place he belongs has concrete walls three feet thick. But a clever lawyer finds an inconsistency, the judge makes a ruling that your key evidence is inadmissible, and the guy walks. A variation is when the scumbag has money and he gets a team of good lawyers who overwhelm the prosecutor. Maybe the prosecutor is just as good on technique, but she doesn’t have the resources, can’t hire the help. Our system is about as good as legal systems get, but that doesn’t mean we get justice. In fact, often justice in this country is a crap shoot. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  A truck went by on the highway, its engine roaring as if it weren’t used to high altitude and it had to gasp twice as loud as normal in order to function. I had to stop talking until it was far down the road.

  “Sometimes, of course, we do get justice,” I said, “and the bad guy goes inside. Later, when we ask ourselves why the system worked this time, it usually gets down to a single little thing. The testimony of a witness, a person who was willing to come forward, point at the defendant, and say, ‘Yes, I saw that man pull the murder weapon out of his pocket.’ Or, ‘The defendant told me about the party after he got home, so I know he was there.’ Or, ‘The defendant said that he hated the murder victim and would do anything to sink her to the bottom of the lake.’”

  I paused, thinking that I was making it seem like valuable witnesses always have something big to say. So I amended it a bit.

  “Sometimes there is a witness who knows something that turns out to be important, but the witness doesn’t realize that. Usually, nothing about the information is dramatic. It could be as simple as having seen someone drive through the neighborhood. It couldn’t possibly matter, right? Because the person didn’t do anything wrong. They weren’t even speeding. They didn’t toss litter out the window. They were behaving like all other upstanding citizens.

  “But what the witness doesn’t know is that the defendant has previously claimed to have been in Hawaii on the day the witness saw him in the neighborhood. Simple testimony like that can blow apart a defense. Often the most basic observation can help put a bad guy in jail where he belongs. But without that testimony, the bad guy stays on the street and commits more crimes.”

  I paused and took a breath. I had still heard no sound from within the cabin. I was feeling ridiculous, rattling on to no effect, wasting my time and, probably, the lady’s time as well.

  Five cars in a row went by. They all had ski racks on their roofs. One was an Audi, two were BMWs, and two were Mercedes, like a German car commercial shot in Tahoe instead of the Bavarian Alps.

  There was still no response from within the cabin. I didn’t know what to do to increase my chances that the woman would talk to me. Assuming that she was even in the cabin. I wanted to go back home, but I’d invested a lot of time driving down to get advice from Ellie. So it made sense to keep trying for a bit longer.

  “This is the dilemma that we in law enforcement face on a continuing basis. We do the leg work of pursuing a killer, but without a single good citizen coming forward, we can’t assemble a solid case to put before a jury.

  “This case is like that. We have the death of your neighbor Ian Lassitor. Maybe you’ve met him, maybe not. He lived across the highway. There’s a big stone house on the lake. You can’t see it from here because of all the trees.

  “One morning a couple of weeks ago, your neighbor Ian Lassitor apparently went out on his boat. It was, no doubt, a bad decision. It was very cold, and the wind was deadly. We’re not sure what happened, but it appears that he collided with another boat. His boat broke apart and most of it sank. He had a flotation jacket on, but the ice cold water killed him by hypothermia.

  “Shortly after Lassitor died, his wife Nadia got a note extorting the life insurance payout. It could be from a low-life who simply saw an opportunity to profit from Lassitor’s accidental death. But it could also indicate that the blackmailer helped arrange Lassitor’s death.

  “Then something much worse happened. Nadia L
assitor has a daughter from a previous marriage, a girl named Gertie. I was worried about her. So I went and visited Gertie and her father to warn them about the threat. I ended up talking to Gertie for some time.

  “Gertie is fifteen years old. She’s got more personality than any three kids put together. She’s smart and sassy and wry and grown-up beyond her years. I didn’t specifically lay out the potential threat to Gertie, because I didn’t want to scare her. But I told Gertie to be careful, to lock the doors and windows.

  “Turns out that shortly after I left, Gertie was kidnapped.”

  I paused. Just talking about Gertie made my breath short.

  “I ache whenever I think about Gertie. It’s a sharp ache behind my ribs. Maybe my rib muscles are knotting up. Or maybe it’s an actual heartache.

  “Either way, it’s likely that someone knows something about this. It could be that someone came to Lassitor’s house. Maybe to sabotage his boat so that it would stop out on the lake and make him an easy target. I don’t know.

  “So I’m looking for any information connected to Ian Lassitor. It could be information that doesn’t even seem like it would be helpful. It could be some person who visited Lassitor in the last few weeks.

  “Such a person might not have even talked to Lassitor or his neighbors. Maybe he just went down to Lassitor’s dock and looked in the boathouse. Maybe he stayed back here in the street and looked through binoculars. However this person made an appearance, it probably seemed innocuous.”

  I paused as a line of loud cars went by.

  “I don’t know you,” I said. “But I saw you here when I came around before. So it made me think of asking you for help. You might not want to help me. I get that. Like most people, you’ve probably had some experience with crime, either as a victim or as someone who knows a crime victim. I understand if you think that you should just mind your own business. Whatever your reasons for choosing to talk to me or not, I understand. I don’t want to pressure you. But of course, I’m still sitting here talking to you, so obviously I want to encourage you. I should probably give you a bit more time to consider. But I’m really worried about Gertie...”

  The lock clicked and the door opened a few inches. An unkempt woman in her seventies looked out. Her long gray hair looked as if she’d been swimming under water and got her hair wound up for maximum entanglement before she got out of the water. Then she let it dry without ever trying to brush it.

  In spite of her wild hair, she was handsome, with graceful eyebrows, pronounced cheekbones, and gentle lips.

  Her eyes were wide open and reminded me of those of a frightened horse. She looked past me, left and right, afraid of something.

  Spot came trotting up. I reached out and grabbed his collar.

  I didn’t want to alarm the woman by standing up tall, so I stayed sitting.

  “Thank you for talking to me,” I said, even though she hadn’t said a word. “Anything you can help me with would be much appreciated.”

  She didn’t speak. Just stared. Squinted her eyes, then opened them wide once again.

  “Anything at all,” I said. “Gertie could die. Kidnappers often kill their victims as soon as they get a payoff. Gertie could be next.”

  “I’ve seen a light,” the woman finally said.

  “Where?”

  “Through the trees,” she said. Her eyes glanced behind me.

  “Which trees?”

  She looked past me toward the highway.

  I turned and looked. There was nothing to see across the highway but trees.

  “Do you think it came from Ian Lassitor’s house? The stone castle?”

  “I’ve never seen the castle. I don’t go out. But I heard it’s like the Thunderbird.”

  I assumed she was referring to the famous stone castle that George Whittel built across the lake during the 1930s.

  “Maybe Lassitor left the light on before he died,” I said, even though I didn’t remember any light from when neighbor Craig Gower showed us Lassitor’s house.

  The woman shook her head. “Sometimes the light is off.”

  “And it turns back on,” I said.

  She nodded. “It flashes.” She stepped over the threshold, raised her arm and thrust a long, graceful finger out. Her finger shook.

  I tried to see where exactly she was pointing.

  “It looks like you’re pointing just to the right of those firs. A bit toward that really tall Sugar Pine tree. Is that where the light is?”

  She squinted toward the tree, then nodded.

  “I think that would be closer to Gower’s house than Lassitor’s house,” I said. “Does that seem right to you?”

  “Maybe. But in the Middle Ages, people were tortured in castles. They had oil lamps. Oil lamps make an evil glow. This light is evil. So the light could be from the castle.”

  “But oil lamps don’t flash.”

  “These do,” she said.

  I tried to think about what I’d seen inside Gower’s house and Lassitor’s house. “Could it be a light on one of those timers that are designed to make it look like someone is home?” I said.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t come on when it first gets dark. The times vary. Sometimes it turns on at four in the morning. Sometimes not at all. But it always flashes.”

  I wondered how often she was up at four in the morning. I also wondered how any light from Gower’s house or Lassitor’s castle could be seen from her cabin. The castle had almost no windows facing this way, and there were enough trees to block any light. Gower’s house was behind an even thicker bank of trees.

  I pointed across the highway toward the lake. “At night, you can see lights across the lake at Glenbrook and Cave Rock. Some of them seem pretty bright even though they’re twelve miles away. Could it be you are seeing a light from across the lake? Shining through the trees?”

  She shook her head. “No. If it came from Glenbrook, it would be a tiny light. And it wouldn’t flash. This is closer.”

  “What is it about the light that makes it seem evil?”

  “The light is golden. Like a fallen angel. It is Lucifer. Satan.”

  “Satan?” I repeated, not knowing what else to say.

  She said, “‘No wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’ Second Corinthians.”

  I paused. “Have you seen any strange person in the area?”

  “You. And Mr. Gower. He might be the Pale Rider.”

  “Do you mean that in the biblical sense?”

  She made a solemn nod. “Death.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Riding that wheelchair. I think he’s faking it.”

  The statement seemed harsh, and her comments taken together seemed to make no sense.

  “You think he can walk without his chair?” I said.

  She nodded, squinted her eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Have you seen anything else unusual?”

  She thought about it. “Only the light.”

  “How often does it come on? Every night?”

  “Sometimes two or three nights in a row. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes four nights in a row.”

  “How do you know this? Are you up in the night?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you ever see this light before Lassitor died?”

  “I don’t know when he died. I’ve been seeing it for two weeks. Or more.”

  “Do any other lights come on when it comes on?”

  “No. Only one evil glow.”

  “Yesterday, I was talking to Craig Gower, Lassitor’s neighbor. Afterward, I came over here to talk to you. When I got out of my car, I heard you on your back porch. You were talking and singing. I apologize for overhearing you, but it sounded like you sang, ‘He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown.’ You sounded like you were angry. Or frustrated at minimum. So I’m just curious. What does that mean, ‘He thinks he’s king, hums and crows, true the crown?’”

  The woman shook her
head. “I never said that.”

  “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure it was you behind your fence.”

  “I would never say that.”

  “After that, I knocked on your door, but I guess you didn’t hear my knock. Or maybe it was someone else here at your house.”

  “No one is ever at my house but me.”

  “Okay.” I turned to leave, walked down her steps, then looked at her again. “Thanks very much for talking to me. I’m grateful for your help.”

  “Don’t go in those trees by those houses. There is evil.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Spot and I got back in the Jeep. We drove back to Craig Gower’s house.

  I knocked.

  Gower came to the door after a couple of minutes. He looked more tired than when Santiago and I visited the day before. But he seemed in good spirits, which, considering his recent history, was admirable.

  “Owen McKenna,” he said. “Come on in.” I followed as Gower rolled his chair into the living room and up near the fireplace. The fire was low. He reached into a log bin, pulled out a split, and tossed it onto the coals.

  As he moved, I watched his legs. A person faking paralysis might tense their legs as they moved around. But his had a sense of limpness about them. If he was faking it, he was good.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “When Sargeant Santiago and I were here yesterday, I had a question I forgot to ask. I know there are a lot of trees between your house and Lassitor’s, but I wondered if you can see his place from any of your windows. Specifically, if anyone were to visit the castle, would you be able to tell?”

  “It depends. If someone came and went when I’m on this first floor, then I couldn’t see them from inside my house. If I’m out on the deck, then I can see through the trees to his driveway.” Gower waved his hand toward the living room windows. “But as you can see, I don’t have the deck shoveled, so that would only apply in the summer. If I’m upstairs, then I can see a bit of Lassitor’s drive and house from a couple of the windows.”