Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) (13 page)

“He didn’t reveal any attitude, if that’s what you’re wondering. He just held up each sheet of paper with our names and instructions about where we were to walk. Then he held up a sheet that said, ‘We have three accomplices following you. If you deviate from these instructions, we will kill someone in your family.’” Larry’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“What happened to those pieces of paper?”

“He folded them a couple of times and put them into his pocket.”

“Was there anything about that leader that was notable. His size? His mannerisms?”

“No. He was about the same size as the others. Although I suppose the uniformity of their clothes might add to a sense of uniformity of size.”

“Smart observation,” I said. “What about Mr. Timmens, Bosworth’s boss? Have you met him?”

Larry nodded.

“Do you think he could have been involved?”

Larry frowned with great intensity. He shook his head. “No, I can’t imagine it.”

“Thanks, Larry. You’ve been a big help.”

I walked Larry out and brought Matt back into the office.

Based on what Larry had told me, I could have predicted everything about Matt. He was big and strong, blond and blue. We hadn’t talked more than a minute before Matt managed to change the subject to his high school jock history.

Eventually, he said, “I wanted to kill those guys. One guy, he didn’t keep a firm grip on his rifle, and I was really tempted to step in and take that piece from him. But I didn’t because Bosworth was real firm on the rules.”

After we spoke for fifteen minutes, I asked him the question I asked Larry. “Is there anything about the robbery that struck you as unusual?”

“What do you mean?”

“These guys who robbed you. Was there anything about it that you didn’t expect? Anything weird or strange?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t talk. That was pretty strange. Right there, not talking. How weird is that? Pretty weird, you ask me.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said. I stood up.

“That’s it? That’s all you want?”

“For now.”

“Hey, let me ask you,” Matt said as he stood up. “I’m thinking that driving a lockbox is, you know, a dead end. This PI thing. Is it a pretty good gig? You meet lots of women? Make lots of money? You don’t have to go to cop school or anything, right?”

“Sorry to disappoint, Matt. PIs don’t make much money, don’t meet lots of women, and yes, if you want good prep, you have to go to cop school and then spend twenty years as a cop.”

Matt looked up at the ceiling, then at the floor, sighed, and walked out fast.

I followed and came back with Jim.

My interview with him was a repeat of Matt but with his war experience as a substitute for Matt’s high school sports. With his dull, curly red hair, Jim wasn’t as flashy pretty as Matt. But he made up for it with a steely hardness that probably made him appealing to a wide range of people who liked the idea of the strong, quiet, deadly, soldier type. He was more reticent than Matt, which may have made him seem smarter than he probably was. I didn’t doubt that he could help someone plan an armored truck robbery, but like Matt, Jim seemed too upset about getting robbed to be much of a suspect. Maybe both Matt and Jim were acting, but I doubted it.

“Jim, Randy Bosworth said that you recognized the robbers’ rifles.”

“Sure. I did two tours in Iraq. I carried an M-Sixteen A-Two myself, but I know the AK-Forty-Sevens.”

“The robbers all had the same weapon?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Anything about them stand out?”

He shrugged. “Just like any other.”

“Could they be fakes?”

Jim was shaking his head before I’d finished the question. “No. I know a real AK when I see one.”

“Why do you think they used AKs?”

Jim shrugged. “Easy to get,” he said. “I’ve seen some internet chat circles. Guys are selling AKs all the time. The world is awash in AKs.”

“Did you come into contact with explosives when you were in the service?”

“I saw some IEDs that military dogs found, but that’s it.”

“Did you see it when the robber tossed the duct-taped bundle under your truck?”

“Yeah. Not up close, but I saw it.”

“Did it look real?”

“No way to know. You wrap something in duct tape, it could be C-Four or pieces of wood.”

“Thanks, Jim.” I walked Jim out of the office, told them all that I’d call if I had more questions, and he and Matt and Larry all drove off in the shiny Buick.

I told Randy Bosworth that I had everything I needed, and I would be in touch.

“That’s all you do?” Bosworth hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I guess I expected a response with more action. You think you’re going to find the robbers after what you did here?” Bosworth said.

“I don’t know. I’ll see.”

Bosworth breathed air like he was frustrated. “There’s a gang of psycho robbers in hockey masks out there. They carry assault rifles and explosives, and they terrorized our men. Your response is to ask a few questions and drive off with a smear of pine pitch that could have come from anywhere. It seems pretty lame.”

I looked at him. “Right. That’s what I do. Collect crime scene material that could be evidence and see where it leads me.   Like I said on the phone, if you’re unhappy, you can dismiss me at any time.”

Bosworth was doing a slow, dismissive head shake. “The cops were all about checking the video for hints of the robbers’ identities and other profiling-type characteristics. They said they’ll be scouring data on past armored truck robberies. They’ll be checking gun dealers and gun show promoters. And they’re going to have computer technicians analyze the video feeds. They had lots of solid stuff to investigate.” He looked at my shirt pocket with the little baggie with the pine pitch as if to emphasize that my approach seemed worthless.

“Cops do all that you mention and more. They do a good job of it. They have more resources than I have. Why would I try to do the same things?”

Bosworth seemed to think about it. “Sure, you have a point. But pine pitch… I don’t know.”

“You can just pay me for today and I’ll walk away.”

Bosworth flared his nostrils and spoke with derision in his voice. “No, keep at it. No doubt you’ll catch the robbers with that pine pitch. I’ll report to Howard and see what he says. Meanwhile, you get to work another day.”

FOURTEEN

I put Spot back in the Jeep and drove south toward Carson City. I switched my phone to speaker, slipped it into my shirt pocket, and called Street while I drove. When she answered, I asked how she was doing and where she was and if I could stop by and get a quick bug consult.

“I’m okay. I’m at the lab, but remember that I’m expensive,” she said, joking.

I was glad that she sounded cheerful. She must not have heard yet about the outcome of her father’s parole hearing.

“I haven’t been paid yet,” I said, “but I could compensate you with non-cash favors.”

“You want me to play hooky from work,” she said.

“You’re the one who often says that any exercise that’s good for the body is also good for the brain.”

“Yes, but I was speaking of running. You know, getting your heart really pumping and making your breath really short and breaking a serious sweat.”

“Exactly what I was talking about. Anyway, primary function is indicated by primary form. I’m just the lonely drone bee helpless against the draw of the queen’s lovely attractions.”

“You think I emit all-powerful pheromones?”

“Whatever it is, it’s definitely all powerful. So consider my request, please. Light the candles. I’ll be there in less than an hour.” I hung up.

A long time later, we were sitting on the rug in Street’s lab storage room, leaning back against the cot that she keeps for such emergencies. Spot snoozed on the far edge of the same rug. The rug was without Harlequin camo pattern, but he slept just the same.

“I can’t believe that I’m sitting in candlelight in my dark storage room drinking champagne in the middle of a work day.” Street held up her glass in front of the candle and looked at the rising bubbles. The candlelight refracted through the glass and liquid and made waves of light and shadow dance across her torso, still moist with sweat.

“Shakespeare’s sonnets deal with love, right?” I asked.

“Well,” Street said, “he wrote one hundred fifty-four sonnets. Some are more specific than others, but taken together, yes, he deals exhaustively with the subject of love.”

“How many of his sonnets do you think he composed in a candlelit storeroom?”

“I suppose some of them might have been penned in this kind of situation. But I don’t think he ever had to be careful not to knock over shelves of jars with insects in them.”

I glanced around at her samples.

“Speaking of which,” Street said, “you had a bug question.”

“Which your magic spell caused me to forget. Let me think. Oh, yeah. I found a bit of pine pitch in which was stuck a small bug. I wondered if you might identify it.”

“Of course. I love those kinds of mysteries. Where did the bug come from, and does it speak of a murderer’s travels?”

“Well, not a murderer that we know of, but maybe of an armored truck robber. Four of them, in fact.”

“That’s even more exciting. Where is this bug?”

I reached for my shirt and removed the baggie with the business card. I handed it to her.

“Unfortunately, I can’t identify bugs in candlelight,” she said.

“Does that mean you have to re-cover yourself in all of those pesky clothes?”

“Such are the downsides to work,” she said.

“Ah.”

FIFTEEN

“Fully clothed and yet still a dream,” I said when Street had dressed.

“The power of champagne,” she said.

Street turned on the light and slid the business card out of the baggie. She put on her mad-scientist magnifier glasses and looked at the sample.

“Well, it certainly is a bug. But it would be more correct to say that it is a bug part. This is the head and thorax of one of the bugs I deal with all the time. It’s a Western Pine Beetle, Dendroctonus brevicomis, scourge of the forest and very effective killer of giant trees.”

“How do they do it?”

“The female burrows through the bark. If there aren’t too many attacking beetles, and if the tree is healthy and unstressed, the tree will kick out enough pine pitch to overwhelm her attack. But if the attacking army is too large, and the tree is weakened by drought, the beetle gets through the bark. Once under the bark, she tunnels out what we call galleries, and lays her eggs in those galleries. When the larvae hatch, they feed on the tree’s phloem, which is the inner layer of bark where the tree transports its nutrients.”

“Wow. So this is the little guy who takes down our forest.”

“Sort of. There are several notable species that are trouble makers. This one primarily attacks Ponderosa Pines. Although sometimes it expands its diet to include all pines.”

“Any idea where one would find both the beetle and the Ponderosa Pine near here?” I asked.

“All over. While our most numerous pine is the Jeffrey Pine, there are Ponderosa scattered all through the forest. And wherever you find Ponderosa, you’ll find the Western Pine Beetle.”

I reached for a magnifying glass that lay on Street’s workshop counter.

“May I?”

“Of course.” Street moved back, and I leaned it to look at the piece of insect. Even in the magnifier, it seemed very small.

“You said this is the head and thorax?”

“Right. We’re missing the abdomen, the largest part.”

“Yes, of course, the abdomen. Hate to lose those abdomens,” I said. “It’s kind of amazing that this little mini beetle has the audacity to attack such a beautiful giant,” I said.

“That’s what bugs do. They’re audacious by nature. Beetles, especially. If you list all the species of plants and animals on Earth and then sort them into categories, you’d find that most of the species of all living things are beetles.”

“I remember you saying something about that in the past. More than all the plants, large and small, and sea creatures and microscopic bacteria and germs and worms in the dirt and no-see-ums that get in your eyes?”

“Way more by species count. Entomologists estimate that the vast majority of all different types of creatures are beetles.”

“And they are so numerous because?” I said.

“We don’t know. Maybe their success is because they are, as a group, so bold. A tiny critter smaller than the eraser on a pencil goes after a giant tree. The critter is so numerous and effective that it can bring the tree down.”

“Because of the bug, we can probably assume that the pitch is Ponderosa Pine pitch, right?”

Street nodded. “That is likely, yes.”

“What about Jeffrey Pines you mentioned, Tahoe’s most common tree? Does the Western Pine Beetle attack Jeffreys?”

“Not so much. The main parasite of Jeffrey Pines is the Jeffrey Pine Beetle. Similar but not the same.”

“How would you imagine that this bug and pine pitch got stuck on the tire of an armored truck that only drove from Reno to Stateline and back?”

“I have no idea.” She leaned over the bug once again and then made a little adjustment with her monster glasses. “There’s something else stuck in the pitch.”

I looked with the magnifying glass. Near the beetle was a brownish, greenish fleck. “A different bug?” I said. “This one more green?”

“No,” Street said. She made another adjustment of her lenses. “It’s not a bug part. More like a piece of a plant. Not a leaf. A piece of stem. But it has a specific shape and some distinct markings.” She took off the glasses. “I bet if you showed it to a botanist, you might get some more useful information.”

“Any botanists hang out in your scientific circle?”