Tahoe Skydrop (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 16), Page 2

  Enraged, Yardley turned back toward Isak. He saw that Isak had the red memory stick in his hand. Isak again grabbed the overhead support.

  Hanging on to both hand grips, Isak pulled himself up. He lifted his feet off the floor of the helicopter and kicked out at Yardley. His shoes hit Yardley’s shoulder, connecting hard. The blow drove Yardley toward the open door.

  Had Yardley weighed half as much, he would have bounced out the door and fallen to his death. Instead, his bulk was still partially on the cabin floor in front of his seat.

  Yardley shouted. “Are you crazy?!”

  Isak Henriksson kicked out again.

  Yardley lifted his arms in defense.

  The man’s shoes struck Yardley’s forearms, propelling him toward the open door. Yardley hit the frame at the side of the door. The rocky cliffs were just thirty yards out. Yardley wanted to reach for the switch that connected his microphone to the pilot, but he was using all his strength to hold on, trying to stay inside the chopper. He screamed for the pilot. There was no response. The pilot couldn’t hear him over the roar of the turbine engine.

  Isak Henriksson kicked out again, his shoes striking Yardley’s chest, driving him closer toward the opening. It was only Yardley’s huge bulk that made him resistant to the move.

  Yardley drove his hands toward the seat and grabbed onto its edge. He pulled himself forward, away from the door, and toward his passenger.

  Hanging from the overhead handles like a circus athlete, Isak again swung toward Yardley and struck out with his feet, aiming a deadly blow to the head.

  Yardley tried to wrench his head back and to the side. The man’s shoe grazed his jaw, and Yardley’s head struck the edge of the door. He was stunned, but still conscious.

  Yardley rolled to the side.

  Isak kicked out again. His shoe struck the side of Yardley’s chest and slid off under Yardley’s armpit.

  Yardley clamped down with his elbow, trapping the man’s ankle next to him. Yardley twisted hard, pulling on Isak’s leg.

  Isak lost his grip on the overhead handles and fell. The flash drive he had gripped in his hand slid across the floor of the helicopter.

  Yardley kept his arm clamped down and rolled sideways, his massive weight settling onto Isak’s leg. Isak jerked his foot, trying to pull it free at the same time he tried to inch his body toward the flash drive. He stretched out his fingertips, brushed the flash drive, then got it back in his grip.

  Yardley pulled on Isak’s other leg without success. Yardley knew he would never be able to outmaneuver the other man who was strong despite being skinny. So Yardley rolled farther, his weight rolling over the front of Isak’s knee, hyperextending the joint.

  Isak screamed. He used one hand to push off the helicopter’s floor and try to move away from Yardley. His other hand gripped the flash drive. When Yardley rolled more weight onto Isak’s knee, Isak slammed the heel of his fist onto Yardley’s face, smashing Yardley’s lips over his teeth. Isak shifted his grip on the flash drive, gripping it like a miniature knife. He stabbed the open metal end of the USB port into Yardley’s face.

  Yardley recoiled as the metal connector cut rectangles in the flesh of his lips. He tried to pull back, tried to roll away.

  But Isak kept pounding him, kicking at him, slamming the flash drive down. Yardley felt trapped, pushed toward the open door. Isak Henriksson continued to kick and punch, driving Yardley closer to the door.

  Yardley’s legs slipped out of the opening, dangling into space. His hips slid closer to the door rim, an inch for each heavy blow that Isak landed.

  Yardley tried to focus on getting a grip on the helicopter. But Isak’s blows to his face with the flash drive cut deeply. A strip of loose flesh flopped beneath Yardley’s nose. The taste of blood was on his tongue.

  Yardley realized he was about to tumble out of the aircraft. He noticed Isak’s punching rhythm, then opened his mouth just as the fist and flash drive descended again. The flash drive smashed against Yardley’s teeth and gums. An explosion of salty blood filled Yardley’s mouth.

  But Yardley bit down.

  Isak got his trapped leg free and kicked more forcefully.

  Yardley clamped the flash drive between his teeth and wrestled it from Isak’s fist. He used his tongue to push the drive into his cheek just as he fell out of the helicopter and plummeted toward the rocks below.

  Jarilyn Beyers was at her new job waiting tables at the upscale piano bar and dinner restaurant on the top floor of one of Reno’s hotels. The restaurant was much more complicated than the diner where she had learned the basics of table service. The entrees had to be described in dramatic and sumptuous terms. The specials had to be memorized and repeated back - performed - in front of the chef before she went out onto the restaurant floor. And the wine list alone would require a year of study to develop any serious level of expertise. Yet, in less than a week, the maitre d’ had promoted her from slinging drinks on the piano bar side to serving four-star meals on the dinner side.

  Tonight she was working the south windows, eight two-person tables with views of Mt. Rose in the distance. The couple at table 7 were discussing the wine. Jarilyn had answered their questions about what went best with the Shetland Lamb, Potatoes Fondantes, and Spring Herbs, and then let them take their time discussing the options. When she had said she’d check back, they asked her to wait because they’d nearly decided.

  So Jarilyn stood to the side, waiting. The two men behind her at table 6, who, by their choice of words and the look of their clothes were wealthy beyond anyone Jarilyn had ever known, were engaged in conversation. Compared to the couple discussing the nose traits of pinot noir, the two men were much more interesting.

  One of them said, “The strangest thing happened the other day. A colleague told me he was at a computer event and he overheard two people talking. One of them was that client you mentioned, the young man with the robotics company. I recognized the name when he said it, but now I’ve forgotten. What was it? You said he was a large fellow with a brash attitude.”

  “LaMotte,” the other man said in a faint accent that sounded to Jarilyn a bit like her neighbor, who was from Norway. “Yardley LaMotte.”

  “Yes, that was the person he heard. Anyway, apparently Yardley LaMotte was saying how sorry he was that you had died! How’s that for a wild rumor?”

  “Definitely wild considering the fact that I’m sitting here. Was the cause of death mentioned? I’d like to know how I perished, ha ha.”

  “He said it was a sudden, massive heart attack.”

  “And how did Mr. LaMotte know this?”

  “I guess he’s been in contact with your brother.”

  “It gets better and better. I don’t have a brother. Any other goodies?”

  “No, that was all my colleague heard. I thought you’d be amused.”

  “Yes, I’ll have to call Yardley LaMotte and let him know I’m still drinking wine, even if he is behind on his payments.”

  The couple Jarilyn was waiting on spoke up. “We’ll take this foothill pinot you recommended.”

  “Very well,” Jarilyn said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  Jarilyn went back to her duties.

  An hour later, the two men at table 6 were ready to leave. Jarilyn brought them the check.

  “Please put this on my tab,” the man with the accent said. He added a tip, signed the bill, and handed it back to her.

  “Oh,” Jarilyn said. “I’m new here. I didn’t realize we kept tabs.”

  The man smiled. “I have a special arrangement. Check with François. He’ll verify it.”

  “I will,” Jarilyn said. “Thank you. What is your name, please?”

  “Henriksson. Anders Henriksson.”

  “Thank you Mr. Henriksson.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Street Casey and I were hiking at 8000 feet when my phone rang.

  We’d been following a trail that branches off Blackwood Canyon and goes to Ellis Peak, not far f
rom Homewood on Tahoe’s West Shore. Although the lower routes had melted clear, the ground was still soggy. Spot and Blondie explored in the forest, disappearing for five minutes at a time. The dogs would come back, check on us, then charge off again, following scents that were unknowable to us. We focused on the grand views of the lake from the higher elevations. They focused on the movements of coyotes and bear and other critters that humans overlooked.

  We hadn’t made it to the top of Ellis Peak, having been turned back by a rising wind and stubborn snowfields that had so far refused to go away in the warm, high-altitude summer sun.

  In the summer, you can walk on most snowfields without punching through up to your thighs or your neck. But those snowy areas are often on steep, northeast-facing slopes. Unless you wear crampons and carry an ice axe, you’re always at risk of slipping and sliding down a slope that might deposit you a thousand feet below in a dark forest where the way out is not clear and a cold night with the coyotes yipping nearby refuses to let you sleep, no matter how cozy the smelly bear cave you’re taking shelter in.

  I didn’t want to risk being stranded. The weather service forecast a major wind event that was to start tomorrow at high elevations and continue for a couple of days. When it came to severe weather, the greatest danger always came from wind because in warm, dry conditions, it could sustain and drive fire. And in cold weather, wind could suck the heat out of your body until you died of hypothermia.

  So when the snows got deep, we had paused at 8000 feet and looked at the astonishing blue of Tahoe. When my phone made its disruptive jangle, I thought I should have turned it off. Now someone was interrupting a glorious hike. The readout didn’t identify the caller. I wondered if answering would make Street respect me for my discipline about work or disrespect me for not having better priorities on a summer’s day off. Man lives by woman’s approval.

  I tapped the button. “Owen McKenna,” I said.

  “Uh, hello, Mr. McKenna. My name is Vince. Vince Cooper.” The man’s voice was deep and resonant like that of a radio announcer. I pictured a guy who looked like Paul Bunyan.

  “Hi, Vince, what can I help you with?”

  “I got your name and number from a friend. I’ve, uh… Let’s just say I’ve got a huge problem. But I shouldn’t talk about it over the phone. I’m wondering if you can help.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “What kind of problem?”

  “Like I said, I’m afraid to talk about it. You’ll understand if I can see you in person.”

  “I won’t make an appointment without some sense of the problem. Is this financial? A romantic problem? A physical threat?”

  “Physical. It’s about my boy. He’s… missing. Could we at least meet to talk?”

  “Hold on and let me check my schedule,” I said.

  I looked across the lake, a view that always inspires a reverie. To the far left, up toward Incline Village, were the ski runs of Diamond Peak, still heavy with snow. Narrow, white, S-shaped paths snaked down the mountain and contrasted with the brilliant blue lake. To the far right, forming the backdrop to South Lake Tahoe, were the more numerous ski runs of Heavenly, an alpine calligraphy at 10,000 feet. Heavenly’s rounded top shimmered in the summer sun. Straight across the lake, the Carson Range mountains were lower but still covered in snow. If I had my binoculars, I could see the grand estates of Glenbrook, Tahoe’s first town, built in the 1860s.

  I felt Street looking at me, a question on her face, her gaze switching to the phone in my hand.

  “Sorry for the delay,” I said into my phone. “I’ll be in the Homewood area in an hour or so if that works for you.”

  “Thank you,” Vince Cooper said. “There’s the Craft Brew Festival nearby. Can we meet there?”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Look for a tall guy with a Harlequin Great Dane.”

  “And I’m a tall guy who will be wearing a red, flannel cap.”

  “See you then,” I said.

  We were back at lake level in an hour.

  The brew festival was a long row of tent canopies near Highway 89 not far from the base of Homewood ski area. Regional micro-brewers had set up displays, and they offered samplers of their latest brews. Street ordered a lager, and I ordered an India Pale Ale. There was an area of tables over to one side, and we sat next to some large piles of leftover snow that road crews had pushed off the road and up against the mountain during the winter. The snow piles were dirty and ugly, but they provided a windbreak from the increasing breeze coming down from the mountain.

  Spot saw nothing of note, so he circled once, then lay on the asphalt, doing the spread-elbows posture so that his chest provided most of the support and his elbows were mere outriggers. Blondie found a place to curl up nearby.

  Street had barely touched her lips to her beer, and I was taking the slow road on my IPA nirvana when I saw a guy who actually looked like Paul Bunyan in a red cap, red flannel shirt, and faded blue jeans over well-worn hiking boots. He was probably in his late thirties, a bit younger than me, and very wide through the shoulders. If he got into some kind of strength competition with a backhoe tractor, I wouldn’t know who to bet on. He was scanning the area, when his eyes settled on Spot. He and his female companion walked over to our table. In addition to his size, the man was a singularly handsome guy and as rugged as the men in outdoorsy TV commercials. As he got near our table, the three women at the next table stopped looking at Spot and began staring at the man.

  The man’s black hair was cut short, and his eyebrows were like toothbrushes darkened with black shoe polish. Although he was a couple of inches short of my six-six, he probably outweighed my 215 by 30 pounds.

  The couple slowed as they approached me, perhaps hesitant because Spot was focused on them, his eyes like lasers, his nostrils flexing. They couldn’t have known he was only wondering if they came bearing treats.

  The man took care to keep some distance from Spot as he stepped closer and reached out his hand.

  “You must be Owen McKenna,” he said in the radio announcer’s voice. “Vince Cooper.”

  I stood and shook his hand, which made my hand feel delicate. He could probably debark Ponderosa Pine trees with fingers alone.

  I introduced Street and the dogs, and Vince introduced his woman companion, Brie Du Pont.

  Brie made a polite little nod and murmured something too soft to hear. Hello, probably. She was a soft-looking woman with clean but unkempt brown hair. She wore an old shirt and cargo pants that were worn thin, not from hard use but from age and a hundred wash cycles. Her running shoes were old but looked like they’d never been on any surface more rugged than thick bedroom carpet. Next to the manly man, she telegraphed meek librarian, gawky and fearful. Ms. Du Pont gave Street the furtive, appraising look I’ve seen before. It was an assessment that in small degree took in Street’s graceful, strong thinness and in large degree seemed to consider Street’s aura of confidence.

  Brie Du Pont made a small smile as she shook Street’s hand.

  Vince seemed nervous, but I didn’t think it was about me. He looked left and right as if worried about a predator.

  “Is this an okay time to talk?” he said. Again, he glanced around him. For a guy who didn’t look like he would be afraid of anything smaller than a bull, he certainly was uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t you pull up some chairs?”

  The man stared at Spot for a bit, picked up a nearby chair, and set it closer to me than my dog. He gestured to the woman. Brie sat down in the chair. Up close, it seemed her eyes were swollen from crying. She looked very sad and weary. Blondie stood and put her head on Brie’s knee. Brie pet her.

  A young waiter approached and asked if he could get us anything. Vince ordered a small pitcher of beer and asked for two glasses.

  The waiter nodded and left.

  Vince said, “Sorry for acting weird. I’m totally freaked out, I’m so scared and worried. I don’t know what to do.” His voice wavered.

  “Why don’t y
ou tell me about it?”

  Vince took a deep breath as if deciding where to begin, and then spoke in a rush of words.

  “Something terrible has happened. I’ve been threatened and told that I can’t talk to the police. So before I tell you, I need to ask if talking to you is like talking to the police?”

  “In many ways, no,” I said. “I’m a licensed investigator. I used to be a cop. So think of me as a private cop.”

  “What does that actually mean?”

  “It means that, in many ways I’m still an officer of the law. I respect the privacy of my relationship with clients. Our communication is privileged, and I won’t betray your confidence. But I also won’t keep quiet if I think you’re planning a crime that would hurt people.”

  Vince looked more upset than before. It was as if he’d had an idea that talking to me would make his problem go away. Instead, I started talking about worrisome details. “I thought this was going to be easy.” He sounded dejected. “Okay, one more thing. Can I… Sorry, but can I know that neither of you will say anything to anyone else in addition to not talking to the cops?”

  Street is always perceptive. I knew she would realize that the comment was largely directed at her. “I never talk about Owen’s cases to anyone other than him,” she said.

  I said, “Street is my partner. You can trust that she, too, keeps everything to herself.”

  Vince looked at Brie as if for reassurance. “Okay, I’m going to take my chances. My boy has been kidnapped.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Your boy is missing?” I said. “How do you know he was kidnapped? Did you get a ransom note?”

  “Yes. Well, not really. They’re not asking for money. They want me to help them. It’s really weird.”