Stateline (31 page)

“Grier doesn’t strike me as corrupt,” I said, then I thought of Mr. 187’s final words: “The sheriff…”

“Let’s hope not,” Cody said. “It’d be nice to know if there’s a cop or two in this county we can trust.”

“A casino paying off the police,” I mused. “What’s the point? Aren’t they getting rich enough off gambling?”

“Get real. It smells like the mob. The goal is always to make more money.”

“I find it hard to believe any law enforcement agency could let someone get away with murder,” I said. “I can see them allowing smaller stuff, drugs, prostitution, the usual vices, but not violent crimes.”

“Greed’s a powerful thing, Dirt. The Samoan didn’t shy away from ramming you off the interstate and blasting away at you with an Uzi. Since he’s working for Tuma, the cops won’t touch him. There’s no telling what he might do.”

I looked at Cody in silence. Snowflakes were gathering on his head and beard. The creases on his forehead forced his eyebrows into a V, and his mouth was set in a scowl.

• • •

We decided to stake out the rear employees’ exit at Pistol Pete’s, hoping the Samoan would eventually leave by that door. Cody drove us around the employee parking area first, searching for a dark, full-size American-made truck, but there were at least two hundred vehicles there, and probably a dozen trucks that fit the description.

It became a moot point fifteen minutes later, when the Samoan, Raneswich, and Fingsten all came out of the casino’s back door and left together in Raneswich’s Subaru. We followed them to a liquor store, and then south, past the city limits and into Myers. When they went by the last gas station in town, I slowed and hung a U-turn.

“What are you doing?” Cody said.

“They’re headed over the pass,” I said. “We’re going to have to wait to get the Samoan alone. But I’ve got a hunch. Hang with me.” Cody glanced at me sharply, then shrugged. “It’s your party.”

I pulled a crumpled telephone book page out of my back pocket, and in twenty minutes we parked in front of the address for Marcus Grier’s residence. The house was in a quiet neighborhood, about a mile off the main drag. A silver Jeep Cherokee was parked in the plowed driveway under the shadow of a huge old-growth pine, its needles stretching high into the darkening afternoon. Three feet of snow buried the yard, but a neat walkway was carved up to the front door.

We parked on the icy curb and walked to the door, vests on, weapons loaded. I didn’t think Grier was part of Conrad Pace’s gang, but I wasn’t in the mood to take chances.

Near the front door, hidden from plain sight by the shadows, was a broad red discoloration in the snow. The stain was fresh. Cody and I stared at it grimly, and I eased my gun out of its holster. Cody motioned to me and stood on the small, covered porch aside the door, holding his .44. I stood opposite him, my back against the wall, and reached out and rapped on the door. It swung open after a moment, and Marcus Grier took a step onto the porch. He wore a green, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pleated khaki pants. He saw Cody first and froze.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” I said. “That’s Cody Gibbons.”

Grier turned in my direction. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Reno?”

“What happened?” I said, nodding at the spot.

“None of your business,” he said, his eyes locked on my gun hand.

“I asked you a question, Sheriff.”

“I’m no longer sheriff, Reno, but as a citizen I don’t take kindly to two armed men trespassing on my property. What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you about a couple people—Jake Tuma and Conrad Pace.”

He shook his head. “Sounds like police business. I’m out of it now.”

“I don’t think so,” Cody said.

“Why did you lose your job?” I said.

He raised his head. “Why do you assume it’s any of your business?” His voice was a course baritone.

“Cody and I had a run-in two nights ago with Deputies Fingsten and Perdie, along with Conrad Pace and an assassin who works for Salvador Tuma. We were fortunate to survive.”

His thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Grier stared us down.

“Pace is going down big time,” I said. “Nothing can stop that now.”

Grier’s face creased in doubt, but I saw a glimmer of hope flicker in his eyes. He looked down for a long moment, then raised his head.

“This morning I found our family dog, dead,” he said. “Someone cut him from his throat to belly. I tried to remove the animal before my daughter saw it. But I was too late.”

“You know who did it?” I said.

Grier’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot, locked onto mine. Then he turned and gestured for us to follow him inside. Cody and I re-holstered our pieces and did so.

We stood at his kitchen table. The area was well heated by a wood-burning stove in the adjoining family room.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“No, thank you,” Cody said. But when Marcus Grier set a bottle of bourbon on the table, Cody’s eyes lit up. “Whiskey will do,” he said.

“You say you’ve met Conrad Pace,” Grier said.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, then I told him about Pace’s attempt to scare us out of town.

“The Samoan,” Grier said. “His name is Julo Nafui. Ex-mercenary, spent time in El Salvador, Libya, Afghanistan—he’s not particular. He works wherever there’s a paycheck to be had. Apparently, he found an opportunity here.”

“He works for Salvador Tuma.”

“That’s right,” Grier said. “Which means he also works for Conrad Pace.”

“Nafui’s the man who stabbed Sylvester Bascom to death.”

“That I didn’t know, but I can’t say I’m shocked.”

“Why is Salvador Tuma paying off Pace? What’s their deal?”

Grier poured a jolt of whiskey into his coffee cup. “You ever been to New Mexico, Mr. Reno?”

“I spent a week in Albuquerque one night. Why?”

“There’s a small town out there looking for a sheriff. I hear it’s not a bad place to live. Maybe I’ll drive down there, see the sights, check it out.”

“Or maybe you’ll stay here and help fry Pace’s grits,” Cody said, helping himself to the whiskey. “That is, unless you got something to hide.”

“What the hell do you know about it?” Grier rose to his feet, his voice booming. He snatched the bottle out of Cody’s hands.

“I’m a detective with San Jose PD,” Cody said, standing in turn. “I’ve been on the job for six years. I was right in the middle of the big shakeout a few years ago, when eleven patrolmen were indicted for taking bribes, stealing drugs, and falsifying evidence. One of the patrolmen was my partner. I hear they still keep him in solitary confinement at San Quentin for his own safety.”

“I never ratted out another cop,” Grier said. “What about you?”

“Let me tell you this, I never took a damn dime, and I watched the guys around me buying new cars and fancy clothes, going out to dinner all the time at expensive joints, divorcing their wives and screwing bimbos, and acting like their shit don’t stink. I didn’t say a word, but when they put me on the stand, put my hand on the goddamned Bible and said, ‘Tell the truth or risk perjury,’ you know what?” Cody slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the plates in the cabinet behind him. “I told the truth. Because those patrolmen weren’t cops anymore. They were crooks, just like the everyday scumbags we busted on the streets. My loyalty to them went out the window when they started living the fucking highlife with dirty money.”

Grier rolled the whiskey bottle back and forth in his hands. Cody sat back down, and Grier reached over and poured a splash into his cup. He placed his hands flat on the table, looking at the two of us.

“So you guys think you can put away Conrad Pace.”

“He’s going down, Sheriff,” I said.

“Talk is cheap,” Grier said.

“We’ll finish him…with your help.”

Grier’s eyes seemed intent on bulging out of his skull, and his skin shone as if a coat of oil lay on the surface. Finally he looked away and took a quick pull straight from the bottle.

“Pace,” he snorted, his voice edged with disgust. “When he was elected, I’d been deputy sheriff in South Lake Tahoe for four years. I own this home free and clear, and it’s a nice life for my wife and daughters. Clean air, slow pace, nice scenery. Not a bad place to raise a family, right?”

I nodded.

“Pace had been a county sheriff in Louisiana,” he continued, “and even though there were rumors of trouble from down South, he won the election here easily because there was little opposition. The previous sheriff had retired, and Pace came into town and ran a slick campaign. When Pace took office, he started weeding out the minorities and bringing in his own people. Perdie? Supposedly he’s Pace’s cousin. And Fingsten is his nephew. I had been somewhat removed from his workings since the county office is down in Placerville. But when he forced me to hire Perdie and Fingsten, I started to understand what he was up to. Those clowns don’t do much to hide it.

“Pace somehow got hooked up with Salvador Tuma, a mobster originally from New York. The Tuma family is heavily involved in casino interests in Vegas and Atlantic City. Once Tuma and Pace got in bed together, Tuma set up a drug dealing hub in Placerville that supplies the Central Valley, Sacramento, Stockton, down to Modesto, and also the Tahoe and Reno area. They run everything; coke, meth, ecstasy, pot, you name it. Tuma put his son Jake in charge of the operation. I imagine under Pace’s protection, they’ve made boatloads of money. Pace is getting a healthy cut—you ought to see the mansion he lives in out at Granite Bay. Anyway, Michael Dean Stiles, the man you shot? He worked for Jake Tuma. And so does Julo Nafui. He handles collections and discourages competitors.”

“So that’s why you let Jake Tuma skate that night at Zeke’s.”

“Yes. He gets a free pass, thanks to Pace.”

“What about the local police departments? Aren’t they on to Pace by now?”

“Pace is an extremely effective manipulator, and he’s also cunning and ruthless. Somehow nothing ever sticks to him. He’s slicker than owl shit.”

“How about Raneswich and Iverson?”

“Raneswich is dirty. Iverson, I don’t know.”

“Did you quit your job?” I asked.

“No. Although I considered it every day for the last six months. What happened was Perdie and Fingsten were both incompetent and spending a lot of time tending to Tuma’s drug business. I chewed them out the other day, and twenty-four hours later Pace fired me for misconduct.”

I picked up a piece of paper and wrote the phone number of the Sacramento journalist that John Bascom gave me.

“Call this guy, Marcus,” I said, handing him the phone number. “He’s from the
Sacramento Bee
, and he’s familiar with some of the recent events involving Pace and his crew. With your input, he’ll be able get a running start on hanging Pace out to dry.”

We stood to leave. Grier stared at the piece of paper in his hand.

“Who did that to your dog?” I said.

“It was Perdie. Had to be. It’s his style. There was a note pinned to the body saying I’m next unless I keep my mouth shut.”

When we drove away, Grier was still on his porch, studying the piece of paper I’d given him.

“W
e got a problem now, Cuz,” Louis Perdie said to Conrad Pace, the phone sweaty against his cheek. “Reno and his buddy were at Pistol Pete’s earlier today and ended up in Sal Tuma’s office.”

Pace’s eyes jumped under his furrowed brow. “They talked to Tuma? This some kind of joke, Louis?’

“No, sir, and there’s more. They just left Marcus Grier’s house.”

Pace squeezed his eyes shut and felt his ears reddening. “Louis, you need to make goddamn sure you know what you’re talking about.”

“One of our guys is following them now.”

Pace exhaled, and calmness slowly replaced his anger, an emotional response he attached to the inevitability of what must be done.

“Tell him not to lose them. I’ll call Julo Nafui.”

• • •

“Now I know what Michael Dean Stiles meant by his last words,” I said, as we drove away from Grier’s house.

“What’s that?”

“He said, ‘The sheriff.’ I thought he meant Marcus Grier. But he was talking about Conrad Pace.”

Cody grunted. “You know what I don’t get?” he said. “You got a casino guy paying off a sheriff so he can run a drug ring. You got Michael Dean Stiles, AKA Mr. One Eight Seven, and Julo whatever the fuck helping run the show. But how does that tie in to Bascom’s murder? What’s the connection between the drugs and Bascom?”

“Julo Nafui knows the answer to that. So does Samantha Nunez. I also told Edward to get Sylvester Bascom’s bank records for the last six months. That might tell us something.”

“Why don’t you ask him to meet us at a bar?”

“All right,” I said. “Just do me a favor and try to stay reasonably sober.”

“Sometimes I do my best work with a buzz,” he said, winking.

It was one of his lines I would remember.

• • •

We took a table at a neighborhood lounge off 50, and I called Edward.

“Julo Nafui,” I said, spelling it for him. “Like I said yesterday, he’s Salvador Tuma’s henchman. He works at Pistol Pete’s, or at least has access to the back rooms.”

“What are you going to do now?” Edward said.

“My job.”

“Oh, right, I meant—anyway, I’ve got Sylvester’s bank records, if you’re still interested.”

“I am. We’re at this dive…hold on. Hey, man,” I yelled at the kid tending bar, “what’s the name of this joint?”

“The Chatter Box,” he said.

“Why don’t I meet you there at eight?” Edward said.

After we hung up, I turned to Cody. “I’m gonna try something.” I dialed the number Iverson left for me.

“Afternoon, Detective,” I said. “Have you arrested Julo Nafui yet?”

“Who?”

“Salvador Tuma’s henchman. The one who murdered Sylvester Bascom and probably also Sven Osterlund.”

“I see,” Iverson said.

“Quit wasting time, Iverson. Arrest Julo Nafui. He’s the one who stabbed Sylvester Bascom to death.”

“Where’d you find this out?”

“It doesn’t matter. He also almost killed my friend and me. Put out an APB on him.”

“You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,” he said. “Hey, John Bascom called my boss and told your story of being dunked and left to freeze in the hills. By Conrad Pace!” He chuckled.