but I didn’t give her details. She asked me to call when I got home.
An hour later, it was dark enough that Santiago felt it was reasonable to change my blown tire, although he wouldn’t let me out of the tree cover.
“You’re the target,” he said. “No point in giving the shooter an easy shot. Maybe he’s got a night scope or something.”
“Maybe,” I said.
When my tire was replaced, Santiago let me leave, and I cruised home through the darkness.
I went straight to my cabin. I wanted to shower off Scarlett Milo’s blood, change my clothes, and clean up Spot as well.
Before I cleaned up, I called Street Casey again and asked if she had dinner plans.
“Yes, I was hoping you’d be done in time to join me, so I’ve been delaying. I’m chopping peppers for vegetarian stir fry. Want to come?”
“I’ll grab some wine and show up when you say.”
“I say come in about a half hour.”
“Perfect.”
I hung up. As I was about to get in the shower, the phone rang.
“McKenna,” I said.
“Hola, amigo.” It was my best friend, Douglas County Sergeant Diamond Martinez. “I’m calling because the shooting of the lady at Squaw Valley and the subsequent shooting at you has produced an amazing cacophony of buzz among local law enforcement. I’m in the area. Wanted to stop by and get the story straight from the source.”
“I’m going to Street’s for dinner in thirty minutes.”
“Does she know about it?”
“The dinner, yes,” I said. “The shooting, no.”
“A report to an audience of two is more efficient than doing it twice,” he said.
I thought about it.
“I will leave posthaste when you’re done,” he added. “Don’t want to spoil a romantic dinner with a lady as lovely as the entomologist of local forensic fame.”
“Meet me at her condo?”
“Gracias.”
I hung up and dialed Street back. I told her that Diamond was stopping by for a quick visit. “Emphasis on the quick,” I said.
Ever gracious, Street said that Diamond was always welcome at her abode, even when I was coming for a dinner-for-two.
I jumped in the shower, and Spot and I were back in the Jeep twenty minutes later.
From my cabin, Street’s condo is 1000 vertical feet and two miles down a winding road. I have a key, but I never use it except for those times when Street makes a specific request for me to let myself in.
Spot began a slow wag the moment I let him out of the Jeep. When I knocked on her brand new door, he stared at the new, reinforced steel panel and listened with the focus of a safecracker. Still wagging.
After thirty seconds, he lifted his head a bit and his tail sped up. He turned his head slowly as if watching something moving on the other side. His gaze tracked from right to left and eventually moved to the doorknob. A moment later, the knob turned and the door opened.
Street hugged him first and then raised up on tiptoes to kiss me. Spot pushed on past her, eager to consider any potential cooking smells and imagine what portion might be for him, vegetarian or not. The place was in fact filled with delicious food scents that I couldn’t place. Accompanying the aromas was some classic Brubeck and Desmond.
“Just so you know, heavy front doors provide no privacy from dogs,” I said.
“How is that?” Street said, turning around to glance at Spot, who was already in the kitchen, nose held high, nostrils flexing. “They can’t see through a solid panel. Can they smell through closed doors?”
“Probably. But in this case, Spot could hear you. He knew exactly when you were about to open the door.”
“But I’m wearing my slippers. They make no noise. And the music covers any other noise.”
I shrugged as I came in and closed and locked the door behind me.
“Canine enigmas,” Street said. “So many things work in ways that are unknowable. Like all the great arts. Poetry. Music. Painting. Dance. Dog perception.”
I followed Street in and set the Wild Horse Pinot
An hour later, it was dark enough that Santiago felt it was reasonable to change my blown tire, although he wouldn’t let me out of the tree cover.
“You’re the target,” he said. “No point in giving the shooter an easy shot. Maybe he’s got a night scope or something.”
“Maybe,” I said.
When my tire was replaced, Santiago let me leave, and I cruised home through the darkness.
I went straight to my cabin. I wanted to shower off Scarlett Milo’s blood, change my clothes, and clean up Spot as well.
Before I cleaned up, I called Street Casey again and asked if she had dinner plans.
“Yes, I was hoping you’d be done in time to join me, so I’ve been delaying. I’m chopping peppers for vegetarian stir fry. Want to come?”
“I’ll grab some wine and show up when you say.”
“I say come in about a half hour.”
“Perfect.”
I hung up. As I was about to get in the shower, the phone rang.
“McKenna,” I said.
“Hola, amigo.” It was my best friend, Douglas County Sergeant Diamond Martinez. “I’m calling because the shooting of the lady at Squaw Valley and the subsequent shooting at you has produced an amazing cacophony of buzz among local law enforcement. I’m in the area. Wanted to stop by and get the story straight from the source.”
“I’m going to Street’s for dinner in thirty minutes.”
“Does she know about it?”
“The dinner, yes,” I said. “The shooting, no.”
“A report to an audience of two is more efficient than doing it twice,” he said.
I thought about it.
“I will leave posthaste when you’re done,” he added. “Don’t want to spoil a romantic dinner with a lady as lovely as the entomologist of local forensic fame.”
“Meet me at her condo?”
“Gracias.”
I hung up and dialed Street back. I told her that Diamond was stopping by for a quick visit. “Emphasis on the quick,” I said.
Ever gracious, Street said that Diamond was always welcome at her abode, even when I was coming for a dinner-for-two.
I jumped in the shower, and Spot and I were back in the Jeep twenty minutes later.
From my cabin, Street’s condo is 1000 vertical feet and two miles down a winding road. I have a key, but I never use it except for those times when Street makes a specific request for me to let myself in.
Spot began a slow wag the moment I let him out of the Jeep. When I knocked on her brand new door, he stared at the new, reinforced steel panel and listened with the focus of a safecracker. Still wagging.
After thirty seconds, he lifted his head a bit and his tail sped up. He turned his head slowly as if watching something moving on the other side. His gaze tracked from right to left and eventually moved to the doorknob. A moment later, the knob turned and the door opened.
Street hugged him first and then raised up on tiptoes to kiss me. Spot pushed on past her, eager to consider any potential cooking smells and imagine what portion might be for him, vegetarian or not. The place was in fact filled with delicious food scents that I couldn’t place. Accompanying the aromas was some classic Brubeck and Desmond.
“Just so you know, heavy front doors provide no privacy from dogs,” I said.
“How is that?” Street said, turning around to glance at Spot, who was already in the kitchen, nose held high, nostrils flexing. “They can’t see through a solid panel. Can they smell through closed doors?”
“Probably. But in this case, Spot could hear you. He knew exactly when you were about to open the door.”
“But I’m wearing my slippers. They make no noise. And the music covers any other noise.”
I shrugged as I came in and closed and locked the door behind me.
“Canine enigmas,” Street said. “So many things work in ways that are unknowable. Like all the great arts. Poetry. Music. Painting. Dance. Dog perception.”
I followed Street in and set the Wild Horse Pinot
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