Tahoe Heat Read online

  I wandered out to the back side of Ryan’s house. A sidewalk made of flat stones and lit by multiple lights on short posts made a long S-curve from Ryan’s house to the lake. The backyard was the environmentally sensitive type. Unlike the front of the house, the back had no water-demanding lawn or other lush greens. Instead, the pathway meandered through artful plantings of native species that evolved to thrive in Tahoe’s wet winter/dry summer climate. Manzanita, chinquapin, and other bushes graced the bases of large Jeffrey pines. Scattered wildflowers added color. Simple but comprehensive stonework defined the plantings. The landscape architect had made a careful study of the lot and put in strolling and sitting areas to take advantage of sight lines and sun angles and prevailing wind.

  The pier also had low lights on the posts. I walked out the pier and picked up some beer bottles and a wine glass that were left by revelers. Under the boathouse roof, in the U of the dock, sat the Riva woodie on its hoist. Even in the darkness, it looked fast and sleek, a work of mahogany art that doubled as a boat.

  There was a small bit of sand beach near the pier, and many natural stones and boulders. The stone campfire area had curved benches surrounded by stone walls about four feet high. A good distance away was a little stone arch with an indentation under it. Inside the cavity were some small split logs and a few bits of kindling. At the center of the circle was the fire pit. I sat on the curved stone bench.

  It was a dream place to have a lakeside campfire, protected from the cool evening breezes and featuring a view of the mountains around the lake.

  Ryan appeared, coming down the sidewalk. He sat near me.

  “Good party,” I said. “I met several people I may want to talk to some more.”

  “You think any of them could be my tormentor?”

  “Probably not. But somebody could know somebody else. I’ll see what I can learn.”

  “I worry that I didn’t do it right,” Ryan said. “All that socializing, hours of talk, a thousand opportunities to get it wrong. What if somebody figured out that the whole point of the party was for you to meet and vet people as possible bad guys?”

  “The good people will never think that. And if a bad guy thinks it, that’s good. It will pressure him, encourage him to make a mistake.”

  I gestured at the fire pit. “Great place for an evening fire before you go to bed,” I said.

  Ryan scowled. “I’ve never used it.”

  “I bet Lily would love a hotdog roast.”

  “Too cold in the winter, and too dangerous in the summer.”

  “Nothing dangerous about this location,” I said. “There isn’t anything combustible for fifty feet in any direction. You’re surrounded by rock and stone and sand and water.” I pointed toward the closest Jeffrey pine. “The lowest branches on that tree are sixty feet above the ground. You couldn’t get it to burn if you tried.”

  “But that bush under it,” Ryan mumbled.

  I realized he was looking for an excuse not to use the fire pit.

  “Even if you purposely lit it on fire, it couldn’t light the tree on fire. Mature pines have evolved to be fire resistant. They lose all their lower branches. Without large amounts of what we call ladder fuels, a fire can’t get up into the crown. You couldn’t find a safer place to have a campfire unless you went out to a barren desert. But don’t let me pressure you into using the fire pit. I just thought it looked fun.”

  Ryan frowned as if it were a concern of huge importance.

  “I’ve been near fires, but I’ve never actually made one,” he said.

  I tried to act casual as I again considered the implications of his admission. This master of the scientific universe had never experienced the most basic of life’s joys.

  “No big deal,” I said, pointing over at the firewood. “A bit of crumpled newspaper under a little kindling and a log or two, and you’ll have a great time winding down from your party. Any chance you’ve got marshmallows in the house?”

  “I think so. Lily loves them.”

  “Then you could roast some with Lily. Anyway, I’m thinking of taking a night off. I’ll leave Spot with you. Officer Vistamon will be outside. Are you okay with that?”

  “If you think it’s safe.”

  “As long as you keep Spot nearby, I can’t imagine anyone giving you much trouble.”

  “Okay. William’s mom already left without him, so he’s staying over. That will give our little army one more recruit. For that matter, maybe he knows about campfires. He could make sure I don’t screw it up.”

  “You’ll have fun,” I said.

  I picked a small bouquet of wildflowers from around Herman’s cabin, and showed up at Street’s a few minutes later. The flowers seemed to have contracted into little crispy bits of colored paper. By the time Street opened the door, they looked like weeds from the side of the road.

  Street was gracious as always, reacting as if I’d handed her a dozen red roses.

  Because we’d only eaten a few hors d’oeuvres, she broiled some Halibut fillets, steamed some broccoli and red potatoes.

  My cell phone chimed out a burst of Brubeck and Desmond playing one of their duets.

  “That’s a first,” Street said. “You actually remembered to turn that thing on.”

  “Slow, but trainable,” I said. I answered the phone.

  “You were right,” Ryan exclaimed. “William and I made a fire, and it worked just like you said. We kept it small, and it was perfect. Lil’, say hi to Owen.“

  I heard the phone being shuffled.

  “Owen, guess wha’?” came Lily’s voice. It sounded like someone had stuffed her mouth with glue.

  “What, Miss Lily?”

  “We roasted marshmawohs!”

  “Mmmm, mmmm” I said.

  “Do you like marshmawohs?!”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Me, too. And Spot too. Here’s Ryan.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ryan said. “She only gave him one. Anyway, thanks. It worked great. And I have the hose nearby, so when we go to bed I can put it dead out.”

  “Good idea. Thanks for the call.”

  I told Street about Ryan’s first experience building a campfire. “He’s led a very sheltered life.”

  “Sounds more like a very impoverished life,” she said. “All his riches don’t change that. It takes someone from outside of his world to prod him into new experiences. You could change your business card. Owen McKenna, investigation and motivation. Personal coaching is big business,” Street said.

  “But I don’t want to be a coach. I want to be your valet, your houseman, your caretaker, your gardener. I want to attend to your every need.”

  “My every need?”

  “Indeed.” I reached up and touched her earring, traced a line down her neck.

  Street set down her wine glass.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Late that night, the phone woke us up.

  At first I thought I was home. I turned the wrong way, covers catching on elbows and knees as I tried to figure out who I was and where I was.

  Street picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” A short pause. “Just a second.” She handed the phone to me.

  “Yeah?” I said into the phone.

  “Terry Drier calling. Called your cabin. Thought you might be at Street’s. Sorry to wake you so early, but I thought I should give you time to come and form your own opinion before the media gets to the scene and complicates matters.”

  I was trying to think of why the Fire Department Battalion Chief would be calling me.

  “Good morning, Terry,” I finally said, blinking my eyes at the clock, which said 4:15 a.m.

  “Sorry, that was kind of a brusque how are you, wasn’t it?”

  “What do I need to form an opinion about?”

  “You are working for Ryan Lear?” Terry said.

  “Correct,” I said, an instant knot twisting my stomach.

  “His neighbor’s house burned down a few hours ago.
We’re just repacking our hoses.”

  Like a punch to the gut. “Anybody hurt?”

  “Not that we know of. Apparently, the place is empty most of the time. We contacted the owner in LA. He said he’s only up here during the holidays.”

  “Is this the big mansion to the north of Ryan’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry to hear about it. What does it have to do with me or Ryan?”

  “Looks like the fire started from an ember that popped out of Mr. Lear’s campfire.”

  Adrenaline made my heart thump. “Ryan said he had a hose to put the fire out,” I said. “And I’ve seen the setting. There is nothing combustible within many yards of Ryan’s fire pit.”

  “You better come look again. It looks like Ryan Lear will be facing some serious charges.”

  I hung up feeling devastated. I explained to Street what had happened, how I’d pushed Ryan to enjoy a campfire against his fears that the fire could spread.

  She was speechless. Her face, white-pale, made me feel worse.

  While Street’s coffee maker gurgled out its brew, I dressed. Before I went to sleep, I’d turned off my cell because my charger was in the Jeep, and the battery was nearly dead. I turned it on and found two messages from Ryan, calling in a panic because the neighbor’s house was on fire.

  When there was enough coffee in the pot, I poured a mug, nuked it for 20 seconds to give it reserve heat, kissed Street’s terrified face goodbye, and ran out to the Jeep. I pulled into Ryan’s drive ten minutes later. His house and yard were lit by his new motion lights.

  The fire trucks were still in the driveway next door, and out on the street, and down the road next to an additional hydrant. Red strobes flashed through the trees. Floods shined in all directions from the trucks, lighting up the yard, illuminating burned wreckage that was as wet as if we’d just had a hurricane. On the street were two patrol cars, their lights making up in flash what they lacked in noise. A couple of spotlights shined on the hulking skeleton of the neighbor’s mansion. The place looked like it had been fire-bombed. Blackened portions of exterior walls stood tall, but the windows looked in on roofless rooms. The roof on the west side of the structure still had its main gable, but it sagged toward the east side. Halfway across the house, the roof had collapsed and fallen into the rubble.

  I parked and found Terry Drier near the burned-out house.

  “Place was sprinklered,” Terry said.

  “Hard to tell.”

  “The owner had turned off the main shutoff because he was going to be out of town, and he’d once had a pipe burst.”

  “Saved the pipe, lost the house,” I said.

  “Come over here,” Terry pointed. “I’ll show you what we found.”

  We walked toward the lake.

  “Owen. Owen!” came a shout.

  I turned to see Ryan standing with two cops. They were in the wash of light from Ryan’s back deck. One of the cops was writing on a clipboard.

  “Hold on one second?” I said to Terry.

  I walked over.

  “They say it was my campfire!” Ryan said, his voice frantic. “But I put it dead out. Just like you and I talked about. I flooded it with the hose. Lily said I was making a charcoal lake.”

  Ryan was wearing jeans and sweatshirt and flip-flops. His lips were blue, and his teeth chattered as he spoke.

  “It couldn’t have been my fire!”

  “Easy, Ryan.” I stepped to his side, put my arm around his shoulders, gave him a reassuring squeeze. He was shivering violently. “We’ll get this sorted out. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “They can’t blame it on me!” Ryan was shaking as if to self-destruct. “Tell them that I’m telling the truth!”

  “Ryan, stop. Take a deep breath.”

  “But I...”

  “Do it!”

  He appeared to breathe.

  “Now do that again. Ten times. Nothing is going to happen immediately. But you’re freezing. You need to get some clothes on.”

  I turned to the cops. “Officers, I’m Owen McKenna. Diamond will vouch for me.”

  “We know you,” one of them said. “Sergeant was just here. He’s talking to Vistamon from the SLTPD. He’ll be back any minute.”

  “Perhaps you can take Ryan inside and let him warm up. Hard to think when you’re freezing.”

  One of them nodded. They turned toward the house.

  I spoke to Ryan. “I’ll talk to you before I leave.”

  I walked back to Terry, and he took me down to the fire pit. They’d turned on Ryan’s beach lights, and the area was lit like a stage set.

  “Ryan Lear explained about the campfire, the s’mores and whatever.” Terry pointed to the fire pit. “And like he said, the fire in the pit is totally out. Charcoal soup. Now walk over here. We didn’t see this until we’d drained our hoses.”

  Terry walked toward the neighbor’s property. “This is due north. I called the National Weather Service. According to their data, the wind at this part of the lake was likely blowing this direction for most of the last six or eight hours. Due north, five to ten, is what they estimated.”

  “They surmise direction and speed, but they don’t have actual measurements,” I said.

  “Right.” About fifteen yards from the fire pit, he stopped and pointed his flashlight at the ground. “A classic marker. A burned cone shape, as if from an ember. Pine needles smoldered, then eventually caught fire. From there the fire progressed north, not expanding much, not moving fast, but moving nonetheless. The duff on the ground probably burned like a cigarette, not with flame.” He shined his light around. The blackened area stretched from the small starting point toward the neighbor’s house. About ten feet from the ignition point, the blackened duff appeared to shrink and then re-expand farther along, gradually widening until it was a ten-foot-wide ground fire when it reached the house. I knelt down nearby and shined my penlight on the area where the fire appeared to have died down.

  “What do you make of this?” I said to Terry.

  He came over to look.

  “It almost looks as though the fire went out at this point,” I said, “and then rekindled an inch or so over. There’s a small bridge of unburned duff.”

  “Don’t touch it. We’ll get lights over here. I’m guessing that just the top is unburned. The combustion probably went underneath for a bit, then came back up to the surface.”

  “Or the firestarter realized his first attempt fizzled out, so he restarted it here.”

  In the harsh glow of the distant floods, Terry scowled so hard that I could sense his venomous feelings for the subject. Like all firefighters, he’d dealt with arsonists over the years, and his disgust with them was obvious. His lips compressed, his jaw muscles bulged.

  “Your reasoning?” he said, his teeth clenched.

  “This evidence, the fact that Ryan took great care to put his fire out, and the distance from the campfire to the first point of ignition. How often have you seen an ember from a campfire explode itself into a forty-foot long jump? And the ember would have had to be good size. Hard to light pine needles or anything else on fire with hot ash drifting down from above.”

  “I’ve seen embers go a good distance. The updraft from the fire can loft them farther. It can happen.”

  “Sure. But think about this kid. He’s scared of fire. I’m the one who suggested a campfire. He protested that it would be dangerous. I had to persuade him that a campfire in that fire pit was safe.”

  “Wait, wait. You’re telling me the kid thought it would be dangerous, and you convinced him otherwise?” Terry narrowed his eyes at me.

  I ignored what he said. “Ryan kept the fire small. Barely used any logs by the look of the woodpile. If an ember had popped that far, it would have made a serious crack. Certainly Ryan or his sister would have heard it. Ryan would have searched it down and put it out. If he hadn’t easily found it, I bet he would have searched with a flashlight. If he still hadn’t fou
nd it, he would have sprayed all of the surrounding grounds with a hose, or set up an all-night sprinkler.”

  “You’ve got a lot of confidence in this kid’s character. Known him well for years, have you?”

  “I just met him a few days ago. I don’t know much about his character, but I have confidence in his dysfunction. I think his neuroses would cause him to worry so much about a potential fire that he would not have gone to bed had a significant ember escaped the fire before he put it out with the hose.”

  Terry shook his head, disbelieving. “Could be an act. A psychological setup. He’s obviously brilliant. Diamond told me about him starting the tech company and all. Maybe all that just hides his sickness.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. I’ve got a feeling about this.”

  “You being in the hunch business.” Terry’s verbal edge was strong. “But this doesn’t fit with what I know of arson. Most fire starters do it because it gives their sick, twisted minds a thrill. An arsonist would have set fire directly to the house, not played some game seeing if he could get it to burn the hard way from a distance. And, if Ryan Lear is truly a sicko, he probably wouldn’t start a fire near his house.”

  Terry continued, “If arson is, as you’re suggesting, the cause of the fire, the most likely explanation is that the fire was set by the owner of the burned house so he could collect on his insurance. But you and I both know that lakeshore houses are so pricey, his insurance wouldn’t come close to making up for the market-value loss. Now if we find out that the guy was thinking about tearing down the house to build something fancier on the same lot, then we’d have a financial motive. But that seems very weak.”

  “Do you have a time estimate of when the fire started?”

  “Our best guess is two a.m. or two-thirty.” Terry said.

  “And did you ask Ryan what he was doing at that time?”

  “Yes. I assumed he would be asleep. But it turns out he was up playing computer games with a friend who was staying over. Someone name William.”

  “So he has an alibi for that time,” I said.

  “Hey, McKenna, no one’s accusing Ryan Lear of arson. The question is only whether or not it was an ember from his fire that started this conflagration.”