Free Tahoe Dark (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 14) by Todd Borg Page A

perspicacious from Diamond, the man who feeds you Danishes, so you shouldn’t be dismissive.”
    Spot didn’t respond. He appeared to be unconscious. The job of riding to the office in the Jeep must be exhausting.
    I dialed Diamond’s number.
    “I appreciate your vouching for me yesterday,” I said when he answered. “It turns out I used to know the dead guy back in the day. He was a defendant in a manslaughter case. Now he thinks I killed him.”
    Diamond sounded amused. “Like a magician, he gets himself croaked and accuses you posthumously.”
    “Croaked?” I said.
    “Been learning more norteamericano slang. I like the word croak. ‘If I croak tomorrow’ is a lot more real than the breezy, euphemistic ‘If I should pass on soon.’ Or worse, ‘If something should happen to me someday.’ Croak says the truth. What did you learn about the croakee?”
    So I told Diamond about David Montrop, and how death by paddle board wasn’t pretty, and how he left a note suggesting I might be his croaker, and how it appeared that his son Jonas had been abducted in South Lake Tahoe. “Sergeant Lanzen learned that Montrop made a twenty-five-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal from the bank yesterday morning.”
    “So the perp snatched the kid, then went to dad’s house to collect the ransom and killed the dad.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “If the perp doesn’t mind killing the dad, then killing the kid would be no big deal, too. What do you know about this kid?” Diamond asked.
    “Nothing. His front door was broken, and he’s gone.”
    “Strange,” Diamond muttered. “Did you call because you think any of this is related to the stickup?”
    “What stickup?”
    Diamond went silent for a moment. “You do a good job at shutting off outside inputs. Here on the South Shore, early this morning. Biggest thing going down in Tahoe in years. I’ve already spent hours on this, doing the routine just a few blocks from your office. While you were, what, sleeping? Oh, I’ve got incoming. Gotta go.” He hung up.
    Just then my phone also rang. I clicked the answer button. “Owen McKenna,” I said. Maybe it was Street, or at least one of the few people who’d be sad when I croaked.
    “Owen McKenna the private detective?”
    “Speaking.”
    “This is Randy Bosworth, General Manager and Security Director at Reno Armored. You’ve no doubt heard about our situation. I believe the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office is well qualified to handle it. But my boss, Howard Timmens, wants me to get you in on this. He’s heard about you and says you’d be a good fit. You probably know how these things go. I do what Mr. Timmens says. He thinks you’re the best chance to catch the scum that did this. You are willing to come down and talk to us in Reno, right?”
    “Certainly,” I said, wondering if I wanted the work. But it sounded like the boss man Timmens might be sad if I croaked, so that was a plus.
    “Can’t beat a PI with his nose to the pavement,” I said. “I have a pretty good scum-catch average.” I didn’t know what scum or situation he was referring to, so I was just putting words on the line to take up space while my perspicacity struggled to reveal itself. Meanwhile, a little voice in my brain said that if I hadn’t gotten all dreamy about Edward Elgar, I would have heard about the scum on the news broadcast that I’d abandoned. Probably, it was the stickup that Diamond just referred to.
    “Why don’t you give me the rundown from your point of view?”
    “Well, it’s pretty much like they said on TV. Our number two lockbox got held up at five o’clock this morning. Just as it was getting light.”
    “Lockbox?”
    “What we call our armored trucks. Number two was on its way to make a cash drop at one of the casinos in South Lake Tahoe. Or I guess I should say Stateline, ’cause that’s actually the name on the Nevada side of the border. The lockbox was headed down an alley that leads from Highway 50 to the