Free Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) by Todd Borg Page B

grandmother to the hospital.
    “No vehicle release without paperwork,” he said. He stood facing me, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
    “I’m Detective Owen McKenna, here to look for a dark blue Toyota belonging to a missing person name of Sean Warner. I don’t want to take the car. I just want to see if you have it.”
    He squinted at me. Letting me in without paperwork was probably against the rules. “You try to lock yourself inside and start the engine, I’ll cut the tires.” He tapped a pocket on his jeans, the bulge of which suggested a large knife.
    “I just want to look. There could be evidence in a murder case.”
    The man stopped squinting and frowned. “Sounds like BS, but okay, have a look.”
    He unlocked the gate and opened it. I stepped through. He locked it behind me.
    “There’s a dark blue Toyota at the far end of the fourth row.” He pointed.
    I walked toward it. The man followed me. Maybe to keep me from doing something devious. Maybe just to talk.
    “People don’t save for a rainy day,” he said. “Somethin’ happens, they get behind. Then surprise, the bank takes their ride. Or the cops, depending on. Me, I’ve got five hunnerd in the kitty. Well, almost five hunnerd. I could pay the fine. But no cop is gonna take my ride, ’cuz I figure if you got no cash for the meter, don’t park. That’s my motto for life. You gotta always have cash for the meter.”
    “Good motto,” I said. “World would be a better place, we had more people thinking like you.”
    “Damn straight,” he said.
    The blue Toyota was unlocked, so I opened the door and leaned inside. There was a vague stink of old beer mixed with marijuana smoke. On the seat was a gray hoodie sweatshirt with dark stains around the edges of the hood and the cuffs. On the dash was a torn magazine with pictures of buxom, leather-clad women on motorcycles. Under the brake pedal was a single glove, dark enough to be almost invisible against the dirty carpet. The cup holder held an empty, dented Budweiser can. The steering wheel was thick with black grime. Hanging from the rear view mirror, looking out of place above the motorcycle mamas, was a string of purple rosary beads. Hanging from the rosary was a gold locket that held a picture of the Virgin Mary.
    I opened the glove box and pulled out the vinyl car manual folder. Tucked in with the manual was the DMV registration. The car was in the name of Sean Warner, and the registration was two years overdue. I put it back and got out of the car.
    “Any chance you have a key or a way to open the trunk?” I asked.
    The man looked at me. He bent into the car and pulled the trunk release. The lid popped up. He grinned. One of his front teeth was missing.
    I looked in the trunk. There was nothing revealing. I shut the lid.
    “Can you do me a favor please and look up the paperwork on this car and tell me where it was towed from?”
    The man thought about it. I could tell he was wondering if it was a trick question or if there was some aspect to the request that would bite him. He turned slowly and walked back to his office, which was a weather-beaten shack about ten feet square. I lifted the glove from under the brake pedal, stuffed it into my pocket, shut the car door, and followed the attendant.
    The man pushed open the door of the office and, without even stepping over the door sill, reached in and lifted a clipboard off a hook on the wall.
    He flipped through some sheets, stopped at one in the middle of the pile, frowned as he read.
    “Snow dump,” he said.
    “Snow dump?” I repeated. “What’s that mean?”
    “Where the city dumps the snow from the main drag. You know, when the rotaries shoot the berm into dump trucks, the trucks haul it to the snow dump. Off Barbara Avenue. The Toyota was towed from there.”
    Then I remembered. “Does it say where at the snow dump that the Toyota was found?”
    The man looked at the sheet, then shook his head.
    “Thanks for