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

the blackmailer was relying on GPS in her car, if, in fact, he was tracking her at all.
    Spot was excited when I opened the back door of the BMW. He stuck his head into the leather-lined space, taking deep breaths, wagging his tail. He’d never ridden in such a fancy car, especially one permeated by fancy woman scents.
    “Get in, boy,” I said.
    He turned and looked at me, wondering if I was serious.
    “It’s our new ride. For a bit, anyway.” I pointed into the car. “Climb aboard.”
    Spot jumped in. Sniffed the seats. Turned around, excited.
    I got in front. Leather aroma mixed with perfume and soap, essence of pampered woman.
    I started the engine. It was smooth and muted but with a hint of growl. Music came on. Mexican. I found the headlight switch and turned it on. There were as many lights on the Beemer’s dash as in Reno on a busy night. I took some time to familiarize myself with the knobs and switches.
    Switching from my old Jeep to a modern German luxury sedan was like trading up from talking through cups-and-string to talking on an iPhone. There were obvious advantages, but the learning curve was steep. It would take a ride-along tutor weeks to teach me how to work all the BMW systems.
    I spun the radio dial looking for something more muscular than Mariachi, but the music didn’t change. Maybe the music was on an unseen CD, or a satellite subscription, or an iPod hidden in the glove box.
    I couldn’t figure out how to change the music, so I hit the power-off button.
    I heard Spot nose-bumping the rear passenger window.
    “Sorry, largeness. We’re in stealth mode. Can’t have you flopping your tongue out an open window. We want them to think that Nadia is in this ride.”
    I pulled out and found that you have to go easy on the gas. At the first touch, the Beemer made me think of a horse rearing before it leaped ahead with instant acceleration. I felt like the horse whisperer communicating without touching the reins. In a moment, I was going 50 in a 30 zone, and I couldn’t remember how it happened. I braked to a more reasonable speed. It seemed to take only a few minutes to get to my turnoff north of Cave Rock.
    Nadia’s BMW powered 1000 vertical feet up the private, winding mountain road that I share with my far-flung vacation home neighbors as if the road were level. Its power and cornering were more like a big motorcycle than a four-wheeled vehicle.
    When I pulled onto the parking pad of my little cabin and got out, I had a vague sense that I should get out the towel and curry comb to calm and reassure the high-strung Beemer’s nerves after our trail ride. Spot pushed out as I cracked the back door. He ran a large circle around the BMW. Probably ravenous for fresh air after Nadia’s pineapple-disinfectant perfume.
    After a short walk with Spot out in the cold breeze, I said, “C’mon, largeness. Let’s fire up the wood stove.”
    I popped a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale when I realized that I hadn’t locked Nadia’s Beemer. I never locked my Jeep, but then no one would want to steal it. A BMW was a different matter. Not many people drove up the road. But leaving a $70,000 car unlocked was not wise.
    I reached to open my cabin door. Remembered the key fob. Cool. I wouldn’t even have to go outside.
    I moved to the big window, pushed aside the blinds, pointed the key fob and hit the lock button.
    There was a blinding flash of light and a sharp, muffled snap like a breaking tree as the BMW exploded.

    ELEVEN

    I spun around, my back to the wall next to the window. Spot had been in the kitchen at his water bowl, so I knew he would be protected.
    The explosion was loud, but it didn’t blow out my front window. I waited a moment to be sure no shock wave or second explosion would follow. Then I looked back out. I could see nothing in the dark. I realized that the flash had given me night blindness.
    I reached over and flipped on the outdoor light. It was hard to see with my eyes shut down, but I could