Stateline (6 page)

“I’m Deputy Sheriff Marcus Grier of the Silverado Sheriff’s Department, City of South Lake Tahoe.” The ballroom was deathly still.

“I have some terrible news to report. There’s been a tragic accident, and the wedding is canceled. I’m afraid that’s all I can say now. Please exit the ballroom in an orderly fashion, for your own safety.”

Grier stepped down from the stage. A stunned silence engulfed the room; the moment was so abrupt and so utterly inconceivable that I thought it might be some kind of morbid practical joke. A hushed murmur rose from the crowd and built into a crescendo as people near the front surrounded the cops and besieged them with questions. More people surged forward, a man fell and cried out in pain, and one officer pulled his billy club as he was pushed back against the pulpit. Another cop grabbed a bullhorn and told the crowd to stand back.

Then a tormented female voice from the front cried out, “Sylvester is dead!” The crowd froze for a moment. And then chaos ensued.

All around people were round-eyed, muttering “my god” and “it can’t be.” A middle-aged woman wandered by, saying, “What? What?” as if in a trance. Moans and cries of grief from the front of the ballroom rose distinctively above the noise level.

“Whoa, dude, what a rat fuck,” Whitey said behind me, adding his own emotional perspective.

Some ladies nearby were crying, two men in their fifties started arguing loudly, and the kids who were sitting next to me began flying their Lego planes in a dog fight. The ballroom dissolved into a scene of confused bedlam, with hundreds of people milling around with their heads cocked and their eyes glazed in bewilderment. I scanned the crowd for Julia and Parkash, then I saw Brad stumble toward me, his legs crumbling, his mug pasty white. He let out a distressed groan and collapsed at my feet.

“Brado!” I bent and saw his eyes rolling back in their sockets. He was pouring sweat.

“Water,” he mumbled with a thick tongue.

“Whitey, stay with him,” I said, and ran out to the hallway to where a portable bar had been set up. I grabbed a plastic water bottle and a glass of ice and came back to Brad, who was barely conscious. I held his head and poured a little water into his mouth. He tilted the bottle and drank it down and fumbled a few ice cubes out of the cup. He ran the ice over his forehead, and his color gradually started to return. A group of people had formed a circle around us, and then Parkash was there, taking Brad’s pulse, shining a penlight in his eyes.

“I’ll be all right, I’m feeling a little better,” Brad said.

“Lie and rest there for a minute,” Parkash said. Brad lay on his back with his knees raised. His thick black hair was plastered against his forehead. Parkash and I stood and he pulled me aside.

“Do you know him?”

“We grew up in the same neighborhood.”

“His pulse is racing. I think he’s on drugs, probably of the methamphetamine variety. He’s young and strong, but those drugs will make you old before your time.”

“I believe you,” I said.

“He needs fluids and rest.”

“I’ll see if I can get him a wheelchair and get him to his hotel.”

He patted me on the back. “Yes, good idea, Daniel.”

Julia appeared at my shoulder. “Nice friends,” she said.

I turned to her. “Sylvester? What the hell? How could he die?”

“My god, I’m sure Desiree is freaking out. I think the McGees are with the sheriff.” Julia walked away abruptly, and Parkash dutifully followed.

Brad was sitting up. I found a white courtesy phone, and a few minutes later a security guard arrived with a wheelchair. We loaded Brad in and took him to a side exit. I left him with Whitey and the guard, walked out to my car and drove around to the door. Brad was able to get up on his own and climbed into the backseat. Whitey sat in front.

“Where you guys staying, Whitey?”

“Over at the Lazy Eight, it’s right next to Harvey’s.”

“How’d you get here?”

“We walked,” he said. “Did you hear, Osterlund’s truck got ripped off.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, somebody freakin’ heisted it from Caesar’s parking lot. Can you believe that?”

“Did Osterlund report it to the cops?”

“Shit, I dunno. We’ve been so fried this trip, I got no idea.”

“You think maybe Sylvester OD’ed last night?” I said.

“He wasn’t too messed up. At least not when I saw him.”

I looked at Whitey. He was a likable guy, but I wondered what his future held in store. I knew guys I went to school with who were thirty-three, thirty-four years old, and hopelessly addicted to alcohol and drugs. They lived with their parents and worked occasionally at menial odd jobs. Their worlds revolved around the daily challenge of coming up with enough scratch for a cheap twelve-pack and a pack of hacks. In times of prosperity they’d splurge on a bag of crank or maybe find some Ritalin or ecstasy. Eventually, I imagined they’d either become successful twelve-steppers or end up on the street and probably die prematurely of liver disease or exposure.

I looked in the rearview mirror. Brad was leaning back with his eyes closed and his mouth open. I could hear him breathing.

“Hey, Whitey,” I said, “check it out. I’m driving up 50 yesterday afternoon, I’m chaining up about ten miles past Placerville, and this big white Chevy truck comes power sliding around the curve and sprays me with a bunch of snow. Then a guy sticks his head out the passenger window and yells some shit and flings a half empty can of Coors at me. I see the license plate on the truck. It says ‘PSYCHIC.’”

Whitey’s mouth opened and his eyes widened. He looked like he’d just been caught in a ladies’ locker room.

“Hey, man,” I said. “I’m not pissed anymore. I just want to know who did it.”

“Dude, I can’t say for sure, but it was probably me,” he blurted. “I mean, yeah, I was with Osterlund in his truck, we were drunk, and we did a couple fat rips right after we scored, and we were screwin’ off on the drive back. I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s cool, Whitey. But I was pissed at the time, you know?”

“I’m sorry, dude.”

“Osterlund’s a good buddy of yours?”

“Yeah, he’s all right. He just goes a little psycho at times.”

“When he’s too messed up?”

“Shit, sometimes even when he’s straight. It’s like he’s got demons in his head or something.”

I turned into the Lazy 8 and parked in front of their room. Brad was snoring. I pulled him out of the backseat and lifted him over my shoulder. Whitey opened the door, and I dropped Brad on one of the beds.

“I think I’ll take a bong hit and pass out too,” Whitey said.

“When you see Osterlund, tell him he should check to see if his truck was towed by the police.”

“Towed?”

“Happens all the time around here.”

I went to my car, thinking I’d head back over to Caesar’s and offer my condolences to the families, but I didn’t know the Bascoms, and the McGees would be surrounded by relatives and close friends. Maybe I’d just send a card to Julia’s family, although I wasn’t sure what kind of card would be appropriate.

I looked down at my fancy shirt and slacks, and it occurred to me my plans for dinner and the rest of the evening were shot. It was a few minutes past five when I drove from the Lazy 8 back toward the Lakeside. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the prospect of a slow night started sounding pretty good. There was an off-the-beaten-path bar and grill a little ways up 50 in Nevada that served good, old-fashioned greasy chow, burgers, tacos, pizza—the kind of food that made you feel warm and content when it hit your stomach. I could sit at the bar, drink a couple of margaritas on the rocks, play some video poker and mellow out, maybe crash around ten or so. But first I wanted to change clothes, so I pulled into my hotel.

I hung up my jacket and slacks and put on my Levi’s and my old, comfortable, rust-colored cowboy boots. I was just walking out the door when my cell rang.

“Is this Dan Reno?”

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“This is Edward Cutlip, personal assistant to John Bascom, president of Bascom Lumber. I’m calling because Mr. Bascom wants to speak to you regarding investigating his son’s death. He’d like to see you immediately. Can you come to our suite at Caesar’s right now?”

“Actually, I was just heading out to get a bite.”

“Mr. Bascom views this situation with tremendous gravity, as you might imagine. He also pays very well, but he insists on timeliness. I think you’ll find it worthwhile to delay your dinner plans.”

I looked down and watched the toe of my boot tap the floor a few times. “Okay, I’ll come over. What room number?”

“Suite four hundred. It’s five-seventeen. Can you make it by five-thirty?”

“No problem.”

“Good. I’ll tell Mr. Bascom. Please don’t be late.”

T
he sun was setting over the snow-capped ridges above the west shores of Lake Tahoe. A strong wind had kicked up, dropping the temperature below freezing. The lake was twinkling with the sun’s last reflections, and the trees were fading to black. I had to park at the outer edge of Caesar’s crowded lot, and I zipped my ski jacket while I made the hike to the lobby.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor. A slightly built, brown-haired man in a dark business suit stood outside suite 400.

“Dan Reno?”

“
Reno
,” I said. “As in Reynolds.”

“I’m Edward Cutlip,” he said in a hushed tone. “This way, please.” I followed him into the suite, a large room lined with couches and padded chairs. On a small conference table in the center was a phone, some coffee cups, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Two notebook computers and a printer sat on a credenza against the back wall, where a small group of people huddled together, talking in whispers. A woman with a tear-stained face came out of the bathroom; her puffy eyes met mine for a moment before she left the suite.

We went through a side door I assumed was to a bedroom, but instead of a bed there was a large wood veneer desk. Behind the desk sat a man in his late fifties: John Bascom.

Cutlip closed the door behind us and motioned for me to sit in a chair facing the desk. He took a seat at a small table off to the side.

Bascom had changed out of his tuxedo into slacks and a black polo shirt. An oversized vein pulsated on the side of his forehead, and he looked at me with small, darting eyes. His lips were pressed against his teeth, and his jaw quivered in the last of the day’s sunlight, which weakly lit the room from a large window looking over the street.

“Do you have a business card?” he asked. I pulled one out of my wallet and handed it to him. He looked at it long enough to read every word twice.

“Okay, Reno, here’s my situation,” he said. “My son was beaten, robbed, stabbed to death. He died of his wounds, probably bled to death, in a suite at the Crown Ambassador Hotel. I just got back from there, and now I need to go formally identify his body at the coroner’s office.” He stopped talking and turned and gazed out the window. I waited, and the silence grew awkward, but he just sat and stared, for a minute, then two, until finally he regained his composure and continued.

“I just met with the two local detectives assigned to investigate my son’s murder. I don’t have a great deal of faith in small-town police agencies, and these two are a good example why. I question their commitment and competency—let’s leave it at that. And I won’t even go into my opinions about the state of our courts.” He stood, sighed deeply, and walked over to the window.

“I lost my first son when he was twenty-one. My remaining son has just been murdered…” His voice cracked, and I thought he might break into tears, but instead he whipped around so quickly I almost put up my hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, his teeth clenched in a snarl. “And I want the lousy scum who did it.” He stood looming over me, shaking with anger. “Am I clear?” he hissed. “I want who did it! I don’t give a flying fuck about anything else! I don’t want the murdering bastard on the streets or even sitting in a cozy little jail and getting butt-rammed all day long! I want him!” His words exploded from deep in his chest, his face purple, spittle flying from his lips.

He took a couple of long breaths, then snapped his fingers at Edward Cutlip and said, “Turkey.” Cutlip scrambled out the door and returned with the fifth of whiskey. Bascom splashed a few ounces in his coffee cup, drained it, and sat back down heavily.

“Reno, I’ve checked your background. I know your history. The only thing that concerns me is you’ve never been in the service,” he said.

“How did you access my background?”

“I’m connected, believe me.”

I wondered to what extent. “What does the service have to do with it?” I asked.

“I did two tours in ‘Nam, Reno, and spent six months in a POW camp. It gives one a certain perspective on crime and punishment.”

“I’m not sure what you want from me,” I said. “The police are just beginning their investigation, and there’s a good chance they’ll make arrests within a couple days. Why do you need a private investigator?”

“And if they don’t make arrests quickly?” Bascom said.

“Why not give them a chance?”

“Yes, and wait for them to flounder and let the trail grow cold. And then I wait for them to commit more time and resources they don’t have to the investigation. And eventually the case gets old and stagnant, and that’s it.” He paused, and we looked at each other for a long moment.

“Answer me this, Reno,” he said. “In most cases that get solved, an arrest is made in the first seventy-two hours. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Let me clarify a few things for you,” he continued. “I’ll make this very simple. I will pay you to drop everything and focus entirely on finding who killed my son. Take a leave of absence or quit your job at…” he picked up my card from his desk. “Wenger Associates. Understand, I don’t want a large, accredited detective agency involved. This is under the table. I do not want it publicized. The bottom line is I want you to identify and bring me the person responsible for…” He paused, and the room became quiet, then his shoulders hunched and he looked deflated and much older. “For the murder of my son.”