Stateline (27 page)

“Every time you remind me.”

“Well, I think it’s time to rack up some more memories,” he said, his hand clasped on the back of my neck, his fingers rough as raw leather against my skin.

We had lunch then hit the road in Cody’s Dodge truck, driving south on Highway 89, past Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts, through Tahoe City, and around the lake. The snow continued to drift down from above, and Cody shifted his transfer case into four-wheel drive as we went over the grade above Emerald Bay. I pointed out to Cody that Osterlund’s body was found in the bay. He shook his head.

“Why would someone dump his body there?” he said, his red beard glowing beneath his hard eyes. “In plain sight? Unless they wanted him to be found. Like they’re trying to send a message.”

“Could be they wanted to scare me off.”

“Maybe it’s time you sent a message of your own.”

I found myself watching the passing cars carefully, and I adjusted Cody’s side-view mirror so I could see behind us. I took my piece out of its holster and balanced its weight in my palm, feeling the cold metal grips against my skin.

My cell rang as we dropped into the valley, driving on 50 toward Stateline.

“Dan Reno, Detective Paul Iverson,” the voice said. “What do you say we get together and shoot the breeze this afternoon?”

“I’ve got a busy schedule.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. You sound like an industrious man.”

“That’s how it is when you work for yourself,” I said, and the line went quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “Can I meet you at the Lakeside at three o’clock?”

“We can meet at The King’s Head,” I said.

“Good. I’ll see you there at three.”

We pulled into the King’s Head a few minutes early, and the only other car in the parking lot was a blue Ford Explorer with an E-series license plate. I decided to leave my gun in Cody’s truck. Wouldn’t need it for a meeting with a cop.

A solitary man was shooting pool when we walked in. He didn’t look like a policeman—more like a casting reject from a vampire movie. The paleness of his face made me wonder if he was ill, or afflicted with a disease of the skin. When he moved around the table he seemed to glide gracefully, like a ballet dancer. His blond hair was lank and barely covered his scalp, even though he wasn’t going bald. He held the pool cue with thin, almost dainty fingers that were a lighter shade than the white pine of the cue itself. Even his clothes struck me as odd; he wore red slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt.

“Ah, you must be Dan Reno,” he said, looking up with nearly translucent blue eyes. “Watch this.” He had lined up a two-rail bank shot. He missed it by a foot.

“I’ve seen better shots in a doctor’s office,” Cody said.

“Or on a bar,” I added.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled without parting his lips. “It must be my lucky day, I get a couple comedians. I’m Paul Iverson.”

“Where’s your partner, Raneswich?” I said.

“He thought it would be best if I met with you.”

“That’s good thinking on his part. I hear he’s quite the asshole,” Cody said. But Iverson laughed. “That’s not an uncommon opinion,” he replied. “Let’s talk about the murder of Sylvester Bascom.”

“Speak freely, Detective,” I said.

“I’d like to know what you’ve learned in your investigation.”

“I’d like to know what you’ve learned in yours.”

“Tit for tat then, is it?”

“However you want to put it.”

Iverson didn’t look happy with my response. Two men were sitting at the end of the bar, huddled over pints and shots. One of them was slurring and babbling noisily about his gambling losses. The bartender looked to where we stood and said, “What’ll it be, mates?”

“Has that guy been here all day?” Iverson said, jerking his thumb at the whining drunk.

The bartender glanced at his watch. “Not yet,” he said. Iverson shook his head and led us to a table in the back.

“We identified a hooker we believe was in the hotel room at the Crown,” he started. “But we can’t find her. The escort service she worked for is closed, and their records have vanished.”

“Dana’s Escorts?”

“That’s right. Tell me what you know about them.”

“I talked to them,” I said, thinking that Dana’s would have been the immediate link to Beverly Howitt. But it sounded like they’d folded up their operation.

“They told me a woman named Samantha was sent to the Crown,” I offered.

“Samantha Nunez,” Iverson said.

“Right.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“At a whorehouse down near Vegas,” I said, without a twinge of regret. I had promised Samantha I’d not turn her in, but since I figured she sent Mr. 187 after me, the deal was null and void.

“The Cat’s Meow,” he said. “She’s no longer there. You have any idea where she might be?”

“None. On second thought, you might find her at the funeral of Michael Dean Stiles.”

Iverson looked at me with narrow eyes. “Why?”

“He was Samantha’s boyfriend. I suspect that after I talked to Samantha, she called him, and he decided to try to kill me. My assumption is he was involved in Bascom’s death.”

“And now Stiles is dead,” Iverson said. We stared at each other. After a moment he looked down, tracing a figure-eight pattern on the table with his finger.

“What else did Samantha tell you?”

“Not much. She was in the room, and she said a big black man tried to rob Bascom. Bascom resisted and got stabbed.”

“A big black man, huh? And how did this supposed big black man get in the room?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Did she let him in? It sounds like she must have.”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Mr. Reno, I’m getting a strong impression you’re being less than forthright.”

I shook my head. “Detective, Samantha Nunez is not dumb, nor is she easy to intimidate. She lives on the edge, and she’s a survivor. I was lucky to find her and even luckier to get anything out of her. I’ve told you everything she said.”

Iverson wasn’t naïve. He knew I was being obtuse, but he had nothing to charge me with, and he hadn’t offered any information of value, which meant he had no bargaining chips. His frustration hung over him like a cloud of stale cigarette smoke.

“What about the black guy? Who is he?”

“I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

“What else do you know?”

“That’s about it.”

“Hey, Detective,” Cody said. “What’s the worst-tasting drink you’ve ever had?”

“What’s your point?” Iverson said irritably.

“Come on, think about it. You ever have a really shitty-tasting drink?”

Iverson looked at me. I shrugged.

“I don’t have time for games,” he said, but then he leaned back in his chair. “All right, you ever have a Slow Comfortable Screw? It’s a screwdriver with a shot of sloe gin and Southern Comfort. Tastes like cow piss with sugar. Why?”

“The expression on your face—you look like you just drank one.” Cody grinned and raised his beer. Iverson looked offended for a second, then actually smiled. “If you’re thinking about a career in stand-up, don’t quit your day job,” he said.

I listened to the exchange without amusement. Iverson stood and motioned for me to follow him, while Cody headed to the men’s room.

“Look,” he said, as we walked to the front door, “you and your buddy there are playing with fire. If I were you, I’d consider leaving town.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Just don’t do anything foolish.”

“Now why would I do that, Detective?” I said, but he looked at me like I already had.

W
hen Iverson pushed open the door to leave, two uniformed cops burst in. One was Deputy Fingsten, and the other was a square-shouldered man in a cowboy hat. Fingsten drew his revolver and pointed it at me.

“Assume the position, asshole,” he said.

“What the hell is this?” I said to Iverson, who was either surprised or doing a good job acting the part.

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” Iverson said.

“Go back to your office, Detective,” the older cop said. “This man’s being arrested on a number of charges. You’re not needed here.”

“What charges?” Iverson said, while Fingsten handcuffed me.

“Take your pick. He’s an enemy of the people.”

“What charges, Sheriff?” Iverson said again.

“Detective, this is county business. I advise you don’t interfere.” I caught the sheriff’s eye, then read the name printed in gold on his shirt: Conrad Pace. He grabbed me behind the arm, Fingsten took my other arm, and they led me outside.

Iverson stepped in front of the sheriff. “I’m in the middle of interrogating him,” he said.

“You can have him after he’s booked. Try tomorrow,” Pace said, and elbowed Iverson aside.

Iverson watched the men walk me across the parking lot. Fingsten pushed me into the backseat of a squad car. As we drove off, I saw Cody burst out through the doors of the bar, his face hot and red, as if he was greatly embarrassed.

We pulled out onto 50. Pace drove and Fingsten sat next to me in the backseat. After a minute I looked at him and said, “I guess you’re not gonna read me my rights.”

Fingsten’s arm shot out and he backhanded me across the face. The same blow from a stronger man would have broken my nose, but his shot just made my eyes water uncontrollably.

“You got the right to shut your fucking mouth,” Fingsten said.

“This how you treat the tourists, Sheriff?” I said.

Fingsten hit me across the face again, harder than before, the back of his fist catching me flush in the nose, and this time I thought he might have broken it. My arms flexed impotently behind my back, and a dark rage rose in my throat. I leaned back, bent my right knee to my chest, and slammed my foot into Fingsten’s chest as hard as I could. He tried to block the kick, but my boot went through his hands like a jackhammer through dry twigs, and my heel pounded into his torso with enough force to snap ribs and cause internal bleeding. Fingsten’s body shot into the door, his eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.

“Goddamn you, that may be the last mistake you’ll ever make,” the sheriff said, and he stepped on the gas. We turned off the highway, then we were driving through a residential neighborhood and then down a dirt road. The car lurched to a stop, and I caught a glimpse of Conrad Pace, his face torqued with fury, his hand grasping his pistol by the barrel as he got out and opened my door.

• • •

When I came to, the first thing I saw was Louis Perdie’s face up close, his complexion rutted and pitted with blackheads. I was sitting in the snow, my hands still cuffed behind me. Perdie held a coffee cup, and he splashed the contents in my face. I blinked the icy water from my eyes. “He’s awake,” Perdie said.

“Rise and shine, shit for brains,” Conrad Pace said. He knelt down in front of me. When I lifted my head to meet his eyes, a sharp pain in the back of my skull made me dizzy, and I had to look back down.

“Here’s how it’s gonna be, private eye,” Pace said. He snatched my head up by the hair. “When we’re done with you, you’re gonna want to get as far away from Silverado County as quick as you can. You don’t stop to eat, piss, get medical attention, nothing. All you’re gonna want to do is get your ass out of my county. Because if you don’t, I promise the only way you’ll leave is in a body bag. Does that make sense to you? I know you’re a stupid fuck, so I want to make sure I’m getting through. Hey! Look at me, asshole!”

I raised my eyes to his face and tried to speak, but the words were strangled in my throat. He and Perdie grabbed me by the shoulders and tossed me down a short incline to the edge of a stream. It was iced over, but there was a three-foot hole cut out near the edge. I felt a knee on my back, and then my head was being pushed under the water. I gasped when I went under, and ice water shot into my sinus cavities. My eyes bulged as if they’d burst free from their sockets, and an intense pressure began to grow in my lungs. I strained to lift my head, but the hands gripping my neck felt like iron. My body bucked hard, but someone had all their weight on my back, and I couldn’t move. I squeezed my eyes closed as tight as I could and clamped my jaw shut. In a quiet part of my mind, I realized this is what it feels like to drown. I tried with all my strength to roll over and throw the weight from my back, but my legs were being held, and someone must have been sitting on my shoulders. It started going black around the edges of my vision when they jerked my head from the water.

“Get a good drink?” Pace said, smiling. I retched violently, trying to hack the river water out of my lungs. “I think you need another.”

They held me under twice more, and the last time I must have blacked out, because when I regained consciousness, I lay a few feet back from the water.

“Hey, private dick,” Pace said, grinning above me. “We got your friend here too. Louis said he wanted to be here with you.”

I heard a thud and a grunt, and Cody slid down the snow toward the river. The left side of his face was coated with blood, and one of his eyes was swollen shut. His hands were cuffed behind him.

“You cowards,” I wheezed, but then Fingsten was next to me. He stuck his revolver against my ear.

“Say another word, I’ll blast your brains all over the snow,” he said. “Come on, tempt me.”

Then a man I’d never seen before walked into view. The first thing I noticed about him was his coat hung off his back at an odd angle because of the massive slope of his trapezoid muscles. His black hair was very oily, and it clung to his dark, deeply pocked face like an overturned basket of snakes. He seemed to move with unusual strength and purpose as he stepped down the embankment toward Cody.

“I hear you’re good with a knife,” I said.

Fingsten pressed the muzzle of his .38 into my cheek.

The dark-skinned man turned toward me and our eyes locked. “You know nothing,” he said, his voice quiet and very even, as if it wasn’t him speaking. Then he smiled, and his eyes were suddenly wet and alive, as if a corpse had come to life.

Samantha Nunez had told the truth about the Samoan, I thought. I watched him and Perdie force Cody’s head into the water. The Samoan went about his work without expression or any sign of physical effort. They held Cody under, while Fingsten cackled like a hyena and cheered them on. When they were finished, Pace lit a cigar, and Perdie removed the handcuffs from my hands and Cody’s. The Samoan seemed to have vanished.