Sky Lake by Scott Lipanovich

Author:Scott Lipanovich [Lipanovich, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: crime thriller suspense mystery, private investigator P.I. PI, California West Coast, disabled protagonist disability, doctor in training intern, old friends water skiing fame, poison drugs fentanyl cyanide
Published: 2023-07-25T23:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Sometimes a single sentence, or phrase, sticks in the mind. It could be superficial or profound. Maybe it’s the sound of the speaker’s voice in combination with the words. Or it’s something you can’t pin down.

“This is my me time.”

Roberto said that when I’d surprised him at Ralston Beach. He didn’t say a word about the search for Brett’s killer. The more times I heard the sentence in my head, in Roberto’s voice, the more I became curious regarding what else Roberto did during his me time.

The next day, Mom went to tour historic silver mines in Nevada. The trek was to give me privacy for studying. My day included more than studying. Roberto’s address wasn’t hard to find.

I was out the door soon after my mom left at eight a.m. I drove to town, went right on Tahoe Boulevard, southwest, until taking another right on Stone Valley Road. Roberto’s house was in open flatland. Deciduous trees had lost some of their leaves. I found a court where I looked to the side and back of Roberto’s place. It was quite a spread for a mid level casino employee. Zillow listed the lot size as an acre, and the size of the house as three thousand square feet. A boat that struck me as a cabin cruiser, shrink wrapped in pale blue polyethylene for the early high-country winter, sat in a trailer along a concrete apron astride the garage. I brought a book in case someone came along and asked questions. If so, I’d employ a had-a-fight-with-the-wife tale. I’d used this to good effect when working for Sherman Investigations.

Rocky trotted into view. At the passenger door of a white Chevy pickup, the German Shepherd sat ramrod still. Roberto appeared, wearing a dark knit cap and light jacket. He opened the door. The dog hopped in, I assumed onto the floor because Rocky wasn’t visible through my binoculars. Roberto reversed a half circle and drove off. I gave him a good lead. We retraced my route, crossed onto Highway 50 in South Lake Tahoe and headed for Stateline, passing stores, restaurants and small motels. Even in that mass of buildings, when the view opened up Lake Tahoe looked spectacular. Roberto took a right turn, away from the lake. The road meandered into countryside. The white pickup turned into Whispering Pines Cemetery. I continued going straight, found a place to park. Pine forest served as a buffer between the road and the lines of pale headstones.

The forest had long ago been cleared to make way for the dead. The place held no life. Grass between headstones was a dried-out weedy gray. I found Roberto with the binoculars. From what I saw, the cemetery was empty except dog and master.

I took photographs. I zoomed in on the front of the pickup and captured its license plate.

Roberto stopped. I froze, thinking he may have sensed being watched. Rocky halted, sat at attention. Roberto reached into a pocket, delivered a treat, rubbed the dog behind the ears, then ambled on.

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