by Dave Stanton
He turned his screen so we could both see it. A big head of blond hair was at the craps table. Cody slowed the video stream and zoomed in. We could only see her from the back, but when she turned to talk to someone, it was clearly her. We spent the next thirty minutes watching her play craps. Over time, a group of men congregated around her, displacing couples or females who I imagined found Terry annoying. Apparently the men didn’t care what was coming out of her mouth as long as they could get a glimpse of her cleavage.
“Pause it,” I said. A man with hair tied in a ponytail had worked his way next to Terry. I could see a clear profile of his smiling face, his lips moving in conversation. He wore a black T-shirt advertising a motorcycle shop.
“Zoom in on his right arm,” I said, pointing. “I want to see if I can read that tattoo.”
Cody moved the mouse and clicked until the screen showed nothing but a blurred blue smudge. He then sharpened the focus until I could make out two capital letters, both Bs, over the vague shape of a skull.
“This is as clear as it gets,” Cody said.
I looked up and saw Davies coming toward us.
“Can we print this?” I asked him.
He thought about it for a second, his lower lip thrust out. “Don’t see why not. Hit file and print, and it will print over there.” He pointed to a large multifunction machine near his desk.
“Great, thanks.”
“You guys want me to pick you up a sandwich?”
“Hey, that’s damn good of you,” Cody said, standing and pulling a twenty from his wallet. “Roast beef for me.”
“Turkey,” I said. “No mayo. I’m watching my weight.”
“I’m not,” Cody said. “Can you get me a couple bags of chips, too?”
Davies left the room and we printed a dozen copies of the ponytailed man’s face, along with a close-up of his tattoo. Then we went back to watching the craps table, but a couple minutes later, Terry walked away. Ponytail stayed for another minute, then he moved out of the picture.
I returned to my screen and fast-forwarded to 11:30 P.M. Terry promptly floated into sight at the roulette table. Within a few minutes, Ponytail arrived at the opposite end of the table, giving me a good view of his body. Hard to say without seeing him in person, but he looked about five-ten, 200 pounds, more fat than muscle.
Then another man appeared next to Terry. His back was to me and I couldn’t see his face. He had a full head of dark, curly hair, and wore a blue sports coat. Within a minute he had his hand on Terry’s back.
Terry turned toward him and smiled and spoke. Ponytail stared at them from across the table, his face pinched, his lips set in a scowl. Less than five minutes passed before Terry whispered in the man’s ear and they walked away from the table together. When the man turned, his face came into full view.
“Oh shit, oh dear,” I said.
“What?” Cody craned his neck to see my screen. “Who is that?”
“Captain Nick Galanis.”
• • •
It was past three when we left the casino. We had spent the hours after lunch watching the view from the camera above the bar, where Galanis bought Terry a drink. When the clock struck midnight, they shared a long kiss while the place erupted in celebratory bedlam. Five minutes later, they walked away hand in hand. We also viewed the remaining footage of all three cameras, until they ended at 1:00 A.M. Neither Terry nor Galanis appeared after they left the bar. The ponytailed man also disappeared shortly after Terry left the roulette table.
I left a note of thanks for Chris Davies, then we walked outside and began hiking down the frozen sidewalk.
“You think we should go chat with Galanis?” I asked Cody.
“Someone needs to. He was with both women before they died.”
“I doubt he’d talk to us.” I stepped onto a snow-covered strip of grass where the footing was more certain. “Anyway, we need to tell Grier and Bill Worley.”
Cody grimaced and bowed his head against the cold. As a general rule, cops don’t like private investigators involved in their cases. Some don’t tolerate it at all. I’d seen the inside of a few jail cells as a result. The best any private detective can hope for from the police is a passive ambivalence. My history with Marcus Grier afforded me that, and maybe a little more if I played my cards right.
“You think South Lake Tahoe PD will tiptoe around Galanis?” Cody said.
“Hard to say. I doubt they’ll break his balls, if it comes to that.”
“Why not? There’s no love lost between Douglas County and South Lake PD, right?”
“They still have to cooperate and work together.”
“What about Galanis? I’ve heard most of the Douglas County force thinks he’s an asshole.”
“Don’t know that he has a lot of friends, but he’s in a position of power,” I said.
“We could put a tail on him, see what comes up.”
“That’s an option.”
“You got a better one?”
“Yeah. Grier’s always been straight up with me. So let’s propose a fair exchange.”
“Meaning?”
“We put him on to Galanis, and in return he shares with us what Galanis has to say.”
“You have a lot a faith in your fellow man, don’t you?”
“Maybe it’s a spiritual thing.”
Cody laughed. “Gimme a break. Grier will probably tell you to blow it out your ass. And besides, ole’ Tex is the chief detective.”
“Grier is still the top cop in South Lake. Bill Worley is new.”
“Hell, Dirt, it’s your town. You call the shots.”
We made it to my truck and drove out to 50 and back into California. The crow’s feet splayed from the corners of Cody’s green eyes were deeper than I remembered, and I saw the first hints of gray in his beard. I wondered if the wear and tear of his lifestyle was catching up with him. He’d been my closest friend since high school, during a time when he was kicked out of his home and lived on the streets. Despite the challenges of his situation, he never missed a day of school. At eighteen, he went to college in Utah on a football scholarship, and starred as defensive end before returning to San Jose to begin his career in law enforcement.
Cody’s stint as a San Jose cop ended after seven years of insubordination and mayhem that somehow never landed him in jail. His termination came after he testified against a ring of corrupt plainclothesman estimated to have pocketed a million dollars in drug money over a six-month period. Cody’s final goodbye to SJPD came in the way of an affair with his boss’s wife, who Cody claimed hated her husband so much that cheating on him turned her into a nymphomaniac.
When Cody opened shop as a private investigator, I was skeptical he had the discipline and organizational skills to run his own business. My doubts turned out unfounded. Despite his outward disregard for the law and a personal life that ran like a demolition derby, Cody was quite successful as a businessman. He’d even confided he’d saved a considerable sum for his retirement, which was fairly amazing given his spending habits.
A retired district attorney, a friend of my late father’s, once offered his perspective on Cody’s situation: “San Jose lawyers know where to go for certain types of cases. Few private eyes will engage to the degree Gibbons does in dangerous situations. Gibbons knows this and charges triple rates.”
We bounced up the curb to the police complex and sat in the parking lot while I dialed Grier’s cell. He picked up after a couple rings, his voice deep as a kettledrum.
“Hi, Marcus. You in the office?”
“No, why?”
“Cody and I are in your parking lot. We’ve got some things to share with you.”
“All right. I’m on my way in. Ten minutes.”
Cody rolled down his window and lit a cigarette. “What else do you know about Nick Galanis?” he said.
I watched a solitary black bird take flight from a tall pine. “When the previous police chief retired last year, Galanis wanted the
job. It was between him and a career cop from Carson City, a guy everyone knew was just putting his time in.”
“So Galanis didn’t get the job.”
“Right. But he was promoted to Captain. All the Douglas County plainclothes report to him.”
“What else?”
“Rumor has it he was offered a job as a TV weatherman, but became a cop instead.”
“Is he a good cop?”
“As a detective, yeah.”
“That’s not what I meant. Is he clean?”
I was hoping Cody wouldn’t take the conversation this direction. He hated crooked cops and felt his firing from SJPD was mostly due to his taking a stand against the corruption that riddled the force.
“Somewhat, I suppose.” I felt Cody’s eyes like lasers on my face.
“What kind of answer is that?”
“He probably ain’t the shiniest fork in the drawer,” I mumbled, pretending to be distracted by a deer that had come out of the woods to pull leaves off a low tree at the edge of the compound.
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” Cody said.
“Hey,” I said, “You already got a personal stake in this because of Terry. Let’s not rush to any conclusions Galanis’ character. We need to keep it in low gear.”
“I’m cool.” Cody smiled and winked.
“You sure?”
He flicked his cigarette out into the snow. “Absolutely, partner. There’s the sheriff.” I looked out the driver’s side window and saw Grier pull up in his squad car. We got out and met him, walking gingerly on the slick pathway to the entrance of the building.
“Something quick, men?” Grier said. “I’m hoping to get home on time for a change.”
“Shouldn’t take long, Sheriff,” Cody said. Grier led us inside and to his office.
“We reviewed security video at Pistol Pete’s, Marcus,” I said, standing in front of his desk. “Terry Molina was last seen having a drink shortly before midnight with a man I think you’ll recognize.” I handed him a copy of a screen shot I’d printed.
Grier’s eyes widened, and he looked at me like I’d just told him he was due for a proctology exam.
“So Nick Galanis had a drink with her,” he said. “He sure gets around. Any indication she left the casino with him?”
“No. But Pistol Pete’s has cameras on the exits. Shouldn’t be tough to confirm.”
He rubbed his face and picked up his phone. “I’ll tell Bill Worley.”
“Hey, Marcus?”
“Yes?” He held the phone, his finger poised to dial.
“We’d like to interview Galanis, but I don’t want to screw things up for Worley. I have no problem backing off if you’ll share what Galanis has to say.”
He set the phone down. “This is now an interstate police matter. It’s going to get damn sensitive.”
“I know it will. That’s why I want to be cautious. Otherwise, I’d drive over and talk to Galanis right now.”
“You really think you’d get anywhere?”
“Yeah,” Cody said. “I really do.”
Grier hung up the phone and picked up a blood pressure monitoring device he kept on his desk. He strapped it to his wrist, then changed his mind and removed it.
“I don’t like to be leveraged, Dan. Don’t push it.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
He shifted his unhappy gaze to Cody. “As for you, Gibbons, you might find this is a good time to head back to San Jose.”
“I thought you wanted me to stick around, Sheriff. Now what, this town ain’t big enough for the both of us?”
Grier smiled. “Don’t cause me any grief, Gibbons. I’ll arrest you before you can spit.”
“On that happy note, we’ll let you get back to work,” I said. “Take it easy, Marcus.”
He nodded and attached the blood pressure gizmo to his wrist again.
• • •
“That went about as well as I thought it would,” Cody said. I shifted the transmission into drive and idled out of the lot.
“Grier will support us. He’s just not always thrilled about it.”
“We’ll see. Where to?”
“Ski Run Boulevard.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I want to see if I can find somebody at the ski resort familiar with the back country.”
The weak sun hovered low over the lake as I parked at the California base lodge. The sky was colorless. From the parking lot, the lake looked gray as weathered asphalt. A few skiers were still straggling to their cars, but most had already departed. We walked past the ticket windows into the lodge, and down a hallway of lockers that led to restaurant and shops.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned if it ain’t happy hour,” Cody said, spotting a bar. “Why don’t you come get me when you’re done?”
“All right.”
Cody peeled off to the lounge and I continued to the back of the building, where the ski patrol had a small counter next to the rental area. But no one was there.
I looked around and saw a man in a red jacket marked with a broad white cross come in through the rear doors. Sunglasses, a skier’s tan, not a youngster, but far from over the hill. Competent looking.
I walked up to him as he set an armful of steel poles in a corner.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Got a question for you.”
“Shoot, Luke, the air’s full of pigeons.” He stood straight and winked.
I smiled back. “How familiar are you with the back country in Nevada?”
“Been skiing here all my life.”
I opened a trail map I’d picked up on the way in and pointed to the Nevada base lodge at the summit off Kingsbury grade.
“From here, can I get to Got Balls Bowl?”
“Nope. Easiest way to Got Balls is here.” He pointed to the area where I’d ducked the rope the day before Christmas.
“Yeah, I’ve done that before. Actually, I want to see if I can get to a glade to the right and probably a thousand feet below the bowl.”
“Over here,” he said, and I followed him to a counter. He produced a worn topographical map crisscrossed with ballpoint pen marks. “Show me where you want go.”
I traced a path to my best guess at the location where I’d found Valerie Horvachek’s body. “I want to see if I can get there from the Nevada lodge.”
“Why? There’s no decent skiing along that route.”
I handed him a business card. “I’m investigating the murder of a girl who was found there.”
“No shit?” he said, round-eyed.
“Yeah. You think someone could have transported a body from the Nevada lodge?”
He rubbed his chin and thought about it for a moment. “From behind the lodge, you can traverse along the ridge for about a mile if you stay high. If you drop down too early, you’re in trouble—this area is a deep gorge.” He tapped his pen on the map. “When you reach this point, you have to drop down, but you’ll be clear of the gorge.”
“So I’d be below Got Balls. Could I get to where I want to go without hiking?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
I studied the map. “Do many people use this route?”
“Hell, no.” He shrugged. “No reason to.”
“Do snowmobilers ever go out here?”
“Snowmobiles? Not that I’ve ever heard of. I thought you meant a skier transporting a body on a rescue toboggan.”
I met his eyes. “You know, a gurney sled,” he explained.
• • •
The ski patroller told me to keep his map, said he had plenty of copies. By the time I herded Cody out of the bar, it was twilight. We drove back toward Pistol Pete’s, Christmas lights twinkling on the buildings and trees along the road.
“Tomorrow morning, can you drive me up Kingsbury grade?” I said.
“Sure.”
“I’m going to try to ski back to where I found the body. Then I’ll need you to pick me up on route 207 in Gardnerv
ille, about a mile north of Waterloo Lane. “
“I’ll check a map. What are you looking for?”
“Any sign the killer took the route from the Nevada base lodge.”
“Big Dan, the mountain man.”
We hit a stoplight. “As far as Terry,” Cody said, “I want to canvass the nearest houses and businesses to where she was dumped.”
“Let’s do it in the afternoon.”
“Okay.” The light turned green, and we drove in silence for a minute. “You going to spend a quiet night with Candi?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“All right.”
“Want to come over for dinner?” I looked at Cody, but he was staring off.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll come get you in the morning.”
“You sure?”
We crossed into Nevada, and I followed his eyes to two women on the sidewalk in furry boots and tight jeans.
“Right as rain,” he said.
“Okay, partner.”
I steered into Pistol Pete’s and dropped Cody off at the hotel entrance. I watched him walk inside, his stride powerful, his jacket stretched tight around the shoulders. He looked charged with energy and purpose—to what end, I was unsure. Cody Gibbons was my best friend, and I knew him like a brother, but at times his behavior was a mystery to me. I’d learned I could no sooner predict or influence his actions than I could convince a dog to not chase a cat. The best I could hope was that he wouldn’t do anything irreparably self-destructive.
Conceding that Cody would do what he would, I drove back home, where my house was lit with the single strand of Christmas lights I’d hung over the garage. Inside it was warm, and Candi was cooking in the kitchen.
“Hey,” she said. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table.
“Mix you a drink?”
“I’d love one, doll.”
She poured me a whiskey-seven and joined me at the table. From her purse, she pulled a plastic container holding a glass pipe and a baggie of marijuana. She lit up while I took a big slug off my drink. Our nightly happy hour ritual. Candi didn’t drink much, and I rarely smoked dope—a clear distribution of vices.
“I’ve never seen you this busy. What’s going on?” She knocked the ash from her pipe and refilled it.