Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (3 page)

FOUR

I took Spot down to the street. I got my snowshoes out of the back of the Jeep and carried them as we headed up the south-facing slope. I didn’t need them at the elevation of Scarlett’s house, but I’d need them when we got up higher.

The soil was mostly grus, finely eroded granitic pebbles that slid underfoot as we walked up, making the climb a two-steps-up-one-step-back hike. Spot’s claws are like studded snow tires, so grip was no problem for him. But he was lethargic with melancholy, and he lagged behind.

We climbed up through a forest that was heavy with scents of pine pitch from several species of conifer. We meandered between earthy aromas of impenetrable manzanita thickets and snow patches that lay four feet deep under the thick shade of fir trees. Snowmelt seeped and trickled and gathered into temporary creeks that gave the forest a backdrop of water sounds to go with the humidity of spring. The sun was dialed up to full wattage, and early-season songbirds flitted about, gossiping at high volume. The vibrant springtime renewal of life was on high speed as Spot and I hiked up to look for clues to Scarlett Milo’s death.

When we got to the first group of boulders, I paused to look around. The air was cool, but the sun was hot. Spot immediately walked over to a patch of tree shade and lay down in the snow beneath it. He panted for a bit, blowing off heat, then calmed his breathing, put his jaw down on top of crossed paws, and appeared to sleep.

The boulders were grouped as if put there to create a shooting blind. There were multiple places a shooter could sit or squat or lie and get a sight line to Milo’s deck. There was even a rock that would make a perfect rifle support.

Everywhere, the ground was marked with indistinct footprints, the most information that grus can deliver. Somebody, the shooter, or cops, or previous hikers, had tromped the ground since the snow retreated.

I lay down and sighted down through the rocks. About a third of Scarlett Milo’s deck was in view, including her body with what looked like three more people nearby. Two wore uniforms. One - probably the medical examiner - was in plain clothes and was bent over the body.

“Okay, Your Largeness, time to perform your search magic.”

Spot didn’t move.

“I know, boy, life is hard, and people die. But you can help.”

Maybe some really smart dog like an Australian shepherd would understand my words, but Spot slept on.

I could cajole and lift up on his collar, but you can’t force a 170-pound dog to perform if he doesn’t want to.

So I pulled out my emergency dog cookie, the kind that comes sealed in a smell-proof wrapper, has a pocket life of two years, and is warrantied to go through at least one laundry cycle without degradation.

I held it up and called Spot’s name again. He ignored me. I walked over and held the dog treat in front of him. This time he opened his eyes, looked at the treat, and put his head back down.

This was worrisome. My dog was depressed. I needed to distract him, to get some joy into his heart. The best way to do that was to get some levity into my words and actions.

I tore at the little notch in the wrapper, but it would not open. I used my teeth. But the wrapper was some kind of spacesuit material, impervious to any alien weapon. I opened the blade of my pocket knife, put the dog cookie on a rock, and stabbed it through the heart.

Now the material tore easily. The cookie broke into multiple pieces.

Spot was finally interested.

I took the two largest intact cookie pieces and put them in my shirt pocket. Then I scraped up the rest of the crumbs and brought them over to Spot.

“A taste, Spot, a temptation of what’s to come should you help me.”

I held out my palm. He sniffed, unsure if he wanted the crumbs.

“Spot, this magnificent gourmet doggie cookie is like a Big Mac to a starving man.” Spot’s eyes drooped, unimpressed. “This is a Red Bull to a teenage boy. This is a ten-thousand-dollar, forty-year-old Macallan single malt to a Scotch connoisseur.” That sold him. Spot licked the crumbs off my palm.

“Tasty, huh? C’mon, boy, let’s do a little search and I’ll give you another bite of heaven.”

I lifted up on Spot’s collar. He resisted, then gradually pushed out his front paws and walked them back until he was in a sitting position. I shifted my tug from up to forward, and he stood.

I pulled out the shell casings Santiago had given me and held them out to Spot.

“Smell these, Spot? Do you have the scent?” I held them near his nose, then reached out with my other hand, put it on his back, and gave him a vibrating shake. I wanted to make him understand that this was a special task, that I needed his attention.

“Smell these, Spot! Now find the scent!” I pulled the shell casings away from Spot and gave him a pat on his rear.

“Go find the scent, Spot!” I gave him another light smack.

He took a step forward and stopped.

“C’mon, Spot!” I pulled on his collar, trying to get him to at least make a pretend inspection of the area around the group of boulders. Spot took another step forward. He lifted his nose as if detecting some small scent on the breeze, turned to the side, and lay down in the dirt.

I squatted down and held out the shell casings once again, sticking them under Spot’s nose. “Do you have the scent, Spot?!” I said, exuding enthusiasm, trying to tap into our past training efforts. Spot had to know that if he found the scent, he’d get more of the fabulous cookie treat.

But he didn’t move.

Maybe his mood was not up to it. Maybe Scarlett Milo’s death was too debilitating.

Then again, maybe there was no scent of spent shell casings anywhere nearby.

I turned and walked away from the boulders.

“C’mon, Spot. We’ve got more hiking to do.”

I glanced back as I angled up the slope. Spot lifted his head and watched me go, then slowly got up and ambled after me.

I took a zigzag path up the slope, once again picking my way through the manzanita and around the snow patches. As we went higher, there was more snow coverage, and the snow patches were deeper. I found it harder to stay out of the snow and was forced to walk across the snow in places, stepping carefully to not punch through. The spring freeze-thaw cycles had hardened the surface. Every afternoon, the hot sun of late April had melted the snow’s surface, and every evening and night, the high-altitude cold had refrozen it. The result was a firm snowpack with the top two inches turned by the sun into soft corn snow. Now and then, my foot broke through the crust, and I sank in past my ankles. I sat down in the snow and strapped on my snowshoes.

The microclimate of altitude change was noticeable after just a short hike. I hadn’t gone up more than three or four hundred feet when the snow coverage became significantly deeper, despite the south-facing slope. Spot spread his toes to give more support, but he still broke through the crust. He began following me, stepping in my snowshoe tracks. I tried to make each step a hard marching stomp to compress the snow enough to help Spot.

The second, higher grouping of boulders was packed with snowshoe footprints and ski tracks from the cops who’d already searched the area. As before, I sighted through the boulders, checking the view down to Scarlett Milo’s deck. Just as with the area closer to her house, this higher one was perfectly situated for a sniper. The only two differences were that this grouping was farther away, enough so that the shooter would have to be a relative expert. But the extra elevation and its snowpack would give a shooter the ability to ski away on a shallow traverse and travel a long distance very quickly.

I dialed Santiago on my cell phone.

“Sarge,” I said when he answered. “I’m up at the second, higher, boulder grouping. It is snow-covered, and the area is trampled with footprints. I’m wondering if the cops who came up here found any footprints.”

“Hold on, let me ask Forman.” He clicked off, then came back a minute later. “None,” he said. “Forman said the entire area was untracked when they got there. They took pictures just in case, and then they walked freely over the snow to inspect around every boulder.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

“Okay, Spot, time for another search!” I radiated enthusiasm because, I hoped, that even depressed dogs might respond to enthusiasm.

Just as before, I pulled out the shell casings, had Spot sniff them, and gave him the command and the pat on his rear. Just as before he took one step forward, sniffed the air and stopped.

“Spot, find the scent!” I repeated, almost pleading.

Spot started to turn a circle in that manner that meant he was about to lie down, when he stopped. He lifted his nose, paused, nostrils flexing, then walked forward, slowly and deliberately. He angled a bit to the right, took several more steps and approached one of the big boulders.

I scrambled to be near as he homed in on the scent. He lowered his head and moved closer. I could see that whatever he smelled was likely in the small, dark crevice where the boulder rose from the snow and the snow had melted away from the rock.

I worried that Spot would paw at whatever he smelled and it would drop down into a gap to never be found. So when he reached out his paw, I was ready and grabbed his collar. I pulled him back.

“Good boy!” I said. I didn’t want to lose the good behavior and reward connection, so I pulled one of the pieces of dog cookie out of my shirt pocket and gave it to him.

“Good boy!” I said again, petting him as he ate it without energy. Then I got down on my knees in the snow and knee-walked to the boulder, lowering my head to see into the little crevice.

In contrast to the brilliant sun on the snow, the area between snow and boulder was dark. I took off my sunglasses and lowered my head farther, putting my forehead against rock and my chin against snow. I peered down and to the left, down and to the right, hoping that a shiny brass shell casing would catch the light. Instead of a shell casing, I saw a dead mouse. I squinted, moving to get a better angle. Maybe it wasn’t a mouse.

My thin gloves were in the cargo pocket of my jacket. I pulled them on and dug my hands into the snow, pulling back, digging a little trench to the mouse-like object. Gradually, I made a bigger opening, which allowed more light to shine in. The mouse morphed into a cigar butt.

It was a classic example of how dogs think. Ask them to look for a gunpowder smell and they will understand that gunpowder is the focus. But they will also understand that out in the woods, gunpowder is very foreign. So in the absence of gunpowder, they will alert on other foreign smells. Like a cigar butt where there should only be snow and boulders.

Careful not to bump the cigar butt deeper down into the crack, I plucked it out and held it up.

The butt was cold but had white ash on the perimeter, not yet spoiled by snowmelt moisture that would certainly wick into it in the next hour or two.

I held it out to Spot. “Is this the shell casing you were looking for?”

He sniffed it and made a single slow wag of his tail.

I got Santiago back on the phone.

“Your men who came up to the higher grouping of boulders. Any of them smoke cigars?”

“Cigars? Of course not. None of my men smoke.”

“Are you sure? Can you check?”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because Spot found a fresh cigar butt. Someone left it here within the last couple of hours.”

“You gotta be kidding me. Hold on.”

Santiago came back a minute later. “No. No cigars among the Placer County men.”

“Our shooter ain’t so healthy,” I said.

“Forman said there were no tracks in the snow,” Santiago said. “He was adamant about that.”

“Then our shooter was adamant about not leaving tracks.”

“Except the cigar butt,” Santiago said.

“Except the cigar butt.”

FIVE

“How could someone not leave tracks on the snow?” Santiago said on the phone.

“C’mon up and I’ll show you.”

It took twenty-five minutes for Santiago and three other deputies to climb up the slope. Two of them didn’t have snowshoes, which have ice claws on them to prevent slipping on ice and snow. So it was an arduous task to get up the mountain. As they approached, I could see them single file, carefully stepping in Spot’s and my tracks to avoid sinking in deep. When they finally arrived, I held out my gloved hand, palm up, the cigar butt balancing. He looked at it.

“Your dog found that?”

“Yup,” I said.

“After you scented him on the shell casings. I don’t understand.”

“Maybe there is no shell casing to be found. But he found something equally out of place in this landscape.”

Santiago pulled out a Ziploc bag, turned it inside out with his hand inside, and picked the cigar butt off my palm and bagged it. He shook his head as if confused.

“It would be like if I said I dropped a quarter in the woods, and you looked around and could find no quarter. But if you saw something like, say, a ring, you would probably pick it up. Equally out of place.”

“I guess it makes sense.” Santiago looked around the setting. “A perfect sniper’s nest,” Santiago said. “From this distance, you’d have to be a pro with a rifle, but there is a great sight line to Milo’s deck. So how did he escape? And how did he get here without leaving tracks?”

“If you walk on snowshoes, you leave tracks,” I said, stating the obvious. “If you come in on skis, cross-country or downhill, you generally leave a track.”

“The sun is pretty intense,” Santiago said, “but any track would still show, right?”

“Yeah. But a skilled skier can come and go on spring corn snow without leaving a track,” I said.

“I don’t understand.” Santiago was shaking his head. “You just talked about how a skier would leave a track.”

I nodded. “Yes, if the skier skied forward in the traditional way. But you can side-slip down corn snow leaving only the faintest of marks. A skier going sideways on corn snow is like a smoothing machine. Like skimming sheetrock mud with a wide trowel. No tracks, no marks, except possibly a small line from the skier’s tips and tails. And just a few minutes of hot sun would blend and obscure that.”

The sergeant turned and looked around the sight. “You’re implying that the shooter side-slipped into this space and took his shot. Then he’d have to side-slip out of here to leave without making tracks.”

“Right.” I walked to the upper side of the boulder grouping and pointed. “Somewhere up the mountain above this spot, probably a long way up, the shooter was skiing the normal way. He came to a stop, then started side-slipping down to this spot.”

Spot lifted his head and looked at me.

“Not you, Spot,” I said. “This spot. This place.”

Santiago was frowning. “I’m not a pro on the boards, but I know that a good skier can control that kind of descent so that he gradually goes forward or backward as he slips.”

“Right. I figure the shooter slid his way into this area through those boulders.” I pointed above me. “He paused here, rested his rifle on this rock for support while he aimed and shot. Pleased with his shot, he tossed his cigar butt under that boulder. Who would ever find that, right? It probably didn’t occur to him that someone would bring a dog up here. So he put his rifle back in his pack or sling or however he carried it, then side-slipped his way down through here. When he got far enough away that he thought it was safe, he probably skied away in the normal fashion. When he got to where the snow stopped, he would have taken off his skis and hiked down the slope. Or got into a car he’d previously placed.”

Santiago thought about it, his eyes narrowed. “Even a long sniper rifle would slide right into a ski bag that he could carry in plain sight, wherever he wanted.”

I nodded.

Santiago looked up the slope. “I don’t like this at all.”