me a lesson on the fundamental differences between men and women. He was stowing his Roto-Rooter machine in his van and quickly closed the back doors as I approached, like he was in a big hurry to get to his next service call—but not too busy to chat after I showed him Savannah’s picture. “Dwayne” was stitched above the left pocket of his stained denim work shirt. He looked to be in his mid-forties.
“You know how women can get sometimes,” he said. “My wife’s no different. Always mad at me for no logical reason, running her mouth, then running off to her mother’s. A day later, she’s back, all lovey-dovey.” Dwayne rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Dime to a dollar yours’ll be back soon enough, too. If I happen to see her around town, I’ll be sure and tell her you’re looking for her.”
I thanked him and moved on.
“Is she, like, in trouble or something?” a high school kid on Sacramento Avenue wanted to know, pausing from shoveling out snow from his parents’ driveway to look at the picture.
“Very possibly.”
“That sucks.” He dug a phone out from under his metallic purple snowboarding jacket and asked me for my number. “I’ll hit you up if I see her around.”
“ ’Preciate it.”
I kept going, wandering among businesses along Harrison Avenue.
Nobody had seen anything.
Nobody knew anything.
It was approximately 1130 hours when I left the offices of the Tahoe Daily Tribune, where a news reporter named Diane Fairbanks who looked like she’d just graduated from journalism school snapped a photo of me holding the photo of Savannah and said she’d try to get something into the newspaper the next day. Diane seemed intimidated by my presence. I couldn’t help but wonder if her promises were intended more than anything to get me to leave.
I’d left the paper seconds earlier and was walking down the sidewalk, not at all sure where I was headed next, when I heard tires crunch in the snow behind me and turned to see an El Dorado County sheriff’s Wrangler. Streeter rolled down the driver’s window and stuck his head out.
“Tried calling you,” he said. “You didn’t answer.”
“Could be because I need to go to grad school to figure out how my phone works. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know we’ve notified every local law enforcement agency to be on the lookout for your lady. The print tech’s wrapping things up back at your room. We’ll get results soon as we can.”
“OK.”
He cocked his head and gave me a hard look. “You didn’t have anything to do with any of this, did you?”
“Any of what?”
“Her disappearance.”
I swallowed down the urge to do the deputy harm and jammed my hands in the pockets of my jacket.
“You want to polygraph me? Fine, let’s go now.”
“You might want to talk to an attorney first.”
“I don’t need an attorney, Streeter. What I need is for you to do your goddamn job. Go find my woman.”
Streeter nodded subtly, like I’d just passed some sort of test. “Every suspect, you ask them if they did it, they’re always calm. ‘No. It wasn’t me, officer. I didn’t do it.’ When you know damn well they did. Nobody ever raises their voice. Nobody looks like they want to punch your lights out—unless they didn’t do it. For what it’s worth, Mr. Logan, I believe you.”
I looked past the Wrangler, hoping I might see Savannah, and said nothing.
“You probably want to change out of those wet clothes,” Streeter said.
“Probably.”
“I’ll give you a lift back to your room.”
I climbed in. The heater was on high. It felt good.
Streeter put the Wrangler in gear, checked his mirrors, and headed north toward the lake.
“Could be she got cold feet,” he said. “It happens sometimes.”
“She walked out when we were married the first time. She wasn’t shy about telling me then where she was going, and the reasons why. She wouldn’t be shy telling me now, but there was no reason
“You know how women can get sometimes,” he said. “My wife’s no different. Always mad at me for no logical reason, running her mouth, then running off to her mother’s. A day later, she’s back, all lovey-dovey.” Dwayne rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Dime to a dollar yours’ll be back soon enough, too. If I happen to see her around town, I’ll be sure and tell her you’re looking for her.”
I thanked him and moved on.
“Is she, like, in trouble or something?” a high school kid on Sacramento Avenue wanted to know, pausing from shoveling out snow from his parents’ driveway to look at the picture.
“Very possibly.”
“That sucks.” He dug a phone out from under his metallic purple snowboarding jacket and asked me for my number. “I’ll hit you up if I see her around.”
“ ’Preciate it.”
I kept going, wandering among businesses along Harrison Avenue.
Nobody had seen anything.
Nobody knew anything.
It was approximately 1130 hours when I left the offices of the Tahoe Daily Tribune, where a news reporter named Diane Fairbanks who looked like she’d just graduated from journalism school snapped a photo of me holding the photo of Savannah and said she’d try to get something into the newspaper the next day. Diane seemed intimidated by my presence. I couldn’t help but wonder if her promises were intended more than anything to get me to leave.
I’d left the paper seconds earlier and was walking down the sidewalk, not at all sure where I was headed next, when I heard tires crunch in the snow behind me and turned to see an El Dorado County sheriff’s Wrangler. Streeter rolled down the driver’s window and stuck his head out.
“Tried calling you,” he said. “You didn’t answer.”
“Could be because I need to go to grad school to figure out how my phone works. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know we’ve notified every local law enforcement agency to be on the lookout for your lady. The print tech’s wrapping things up back at your room. We’ll get results soon as we can.”
“OK.”
He cocked his head and gave me a hard look. “You didn’t have anything to do with any of this, did you?”
“Any of what?”
“Her disappearance.”
I swallowed down the urge to do the deputy harm and jammed my hands in the pockets of my jacket.
“You want to polygraph me? Fine, let’s go now.”
“You might want to talk to an attorney first.”
“I don’t need an attorney, Streeter. What I need is for you to do your goddamn job. Go find my woman.”
Streeter nodded subtly, like I’d just passed some sort of test. “Every suspect, you ask them if they did it, they’re always calm. ‘No. It wasn’t me, officer. I didn’t do it.’ When you know damn well they did. Nobody ever raises their voice. Nobody looks like they want to punch your lights out—unless they didn’t do it. For what it’s worth, Mr. Logan, I believe you.”
I looked past the Wrangler, hoping I might see Savannah, and said nothing.
“You probably want to change out of those wet clothes,” Streeter said.
“Probably.”
“I’ll give you a lift back to your room.”
I climbed in. The heater was on high. It felt good.
Streeter put the Wrangler in gear, checked his mirrors, and headed north toward the lake.
“Could be she got cold feet,” he said. “It happens sometimes.”
“She walked out when we were married the first time. She wasn’t shy about telling me then where she was going, and the reasons why. She wouldn’t be shy telling me now, but there was no reason
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