Free Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) by Todd Borg Page B

work out that way.”
    “Any idea where Ned’s girlfriend came into the picture?”
    “Simone Bonnaire? No. I assume the usual applies. Introverted girl, probably an abuse victim as a child, falls for a handsome guy who knows exactly how to control her and take over her life. If she strays from his rules, the punishment is severe.”
    “Do you think Ned could have assaulted Joe’s wife?”
    “Sure. But I still think her fall was an accident. I have no evidence to suspect otherwise. I could come up with a pretense to go roust Ned out of bed, but he lives in the city of South Lake Tahoe. I wouldn’t want to interfere on Commander Mallory’s territory.”
    “El Dorado County, too, sergeant,” I said. Once in awhile, cops want to take on matters that could be handled by another agency with the same jurisdiction. More often, cops want to let the other agency handle it. Rare is the case that makes a cop feel great.
    “You got Ned’s descriptors?” I asked.
    “Six-three, two-twenty, brown and brown, medium mustache, mono-eyebrow. Think Clarke Gable with muscles. Even his mug shot makes him look like a model.”
    “Rorvik is also confident that Ned is capable of murder,” I said, “but he doesn’t think Ned pushed his wife off the deck.”
     “Hmmm,” Bains said. “I never thought to ask him that. What’s his reasoning?”
    “Joe thinks Ned couldn’t just kill somebody. He’d insist on beating the victim first. The doc says Rell wasn’t beaten, so by Rorvik’s logic, Ned didn’t do it. I think Rorvik may have a valid point.”
    “Rell?” Bains said.
    “Sorry. Cynthia Rorvik. Rell was Rorvik’s nickname for her. Short for Cinderella.”
    “Got it.”
    “Did you interview the neighbors?” I asked.
    “Yeah. I sent two deputies through the neighborhood two different times. No hits, no runs.”
    “They find anybody home?”
    “A geeky kid named Dwight Frankman and a tatted-up playboy named Michael Paul. Paul claimed to be gone when Mrs. Rorvik went over the railing. Frankman claimed to be home watching a DVD of – get this – a nano-modeling lecture.”
    “You don’t believe that?”
    “Do you?” Bains asked.
    “After meeting him, probably. You have Ned’s address?”
    “Gimme a sec.” The phone was silent for half a minute. “Got a pen?” Bains said. Then he read off the address. “You going to pay him a visit?”
    “Yeah. I’ll let you know if I find out anything illuminating.”
    “Illuminating,” Bains said. “I love the way you private detectives speak. Does that come from wine? That’s probably the biggest difference between you and me. Maybe I should learn to drink that stuff.”
    “But I’m working,” I said. “I would never drink wine while I’m working.”
    We said goodbye, and I drank the rest of my beer.
     

 
    TEN  

     
    The next morning, I called Street Casey.
    “Early in the morning for you to call,” she said.
    “Never too early to ask you out on a date.”
    “A date? That takes your wanna-do-cheeseburgers-tonight-routine to a new level,” she said. “Do you have a time in mind?”
    “Tonight?” I said. “I could tell you about my new case.”
    “Impress the girl with your detecting skills?” Street said.
    “Yeah.”
    “You detected something? Wow.”
    “Well, not yet, but I will eventually.”
    I gave her a summary about Joe and Rell Rorvik.
    “I’ll have to let you know about tonight,” she said. “I have a lot of work piled up. Can I call you back this afternoon?”
    “Sure.”

     
    Spot and I left early and drove back to the South Shore. I wanted to have a chance to see Nedham Theodore Cavett’s pickup before he went off to work at the auto parts store that Sergeant Bains mentioned. If I got familiar with his truck, I’d be able to identify him from a distance.
    Because the snow had stopped for a moment, I rolled down one of the rear windows. Spot had his head out the window, tongue dangling in a heavy pant in spite of the winter