by Dave Stanton
Cody didn’t say anything. “I think he’s probably bluffing,” I said.
“You didn’t call Grier, did you?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Because throwing Massie in jail is no solution. The AB is a prison-based gang. They’re as dangerous behind bars as on the street.”
“Massie knew I own a stake in Zeke’s. He also insinuated he knows where I live. Pass this guy, would you?” Cody had slowed and was tailgating a semi that was crawling along in the right hand lane.
“Where does Massie operate out of?” he asked.
“Stockton. Why?”
Cody shrugged. “Because.”
We passed through Truckee, and I saw Cody eyeing the bars, but we drove on, turning onto 89 heading due south, past Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts and into Tahoe City. From there, we drove around the west side of the lake, buzzing along until the tight curves above the sparkling turquoise of Emerald Bay forced us to slow. Twenty minutes later, we stopped at the entrance to Kiva beach, just north of the South Lake Tahoe city limits.
Cody parked near a steel gate painted green. It was open, but the road to the beach had not been plowed, and a two-foot wall of compacted snow blocked the way.
“You want to hike?” Cody said.
I looked down the road at the Forrest Service Visitor Center, a small one-man building that existed primarily to collect parking fees. The window was dark.
We left Cody’s truck at the entrance and walked over the snowpack toward the lake. Beyond the visitor center was an empty parking lot, and beyond that, a scattering of picnic benches sat half buried amid the pine trees. A quarter-mile out, we came to the snow-covered beach. The snow was crusty and our feet sank. Across the midnight blue water, I could make out a few of the taller hotels in Tahoe City. Behind them, the snow-capped mountains formed a jagged horizon.
There were no buildings visible down the curve of the shoreline to our left. A ways to the right, I could make out a flash of crime scene tape.
Cody followed me as I crunched along, sinking to my shins. The water lapped at the shore, sandy particles eating away at the snow. When we reached the spot where Terry’s body was found, Cody pointed toward the tree line at a metal trash barrel chained to a picnic bench.
“That’s where they found her purse.”
I stood for a minute, staring at the trees that spread back to the highway. Farther down the beach, another hundred yards or so, stood the Beacon Bar and Grill, its back deck facing the lake. Next to it, a couple buildings served as a marina. A few small docks and a longer one stretched over the water.
I waved my arm at the restaurant, at the marina, and at a couple dozen cabins I knew were hidden back in the trees beyond. “Camp Richardson,” I said. “Popular in the summer and spring, but I think mostly vacant in the winter.”
“Let’s start at the restaurant.” Cody took off at a determined pace, and I trudged behind, scanning the scene and trying to imagine a nameless man dragging a body in the darkness.
We reached the front entrance to the Beacon, blowing steam into the fading afternoon. Inside, I asked for the manager, and a prematurely balding man with pale blue eyes and a nervous twitch on his lips presented himself at the hostess stand.
“We’re investigating the murder of the girl found out there,” I told him.
“The police were here yesterday. I gave them the names of everyone working New Year’s Eve. We closed at eleven.”
“How about at the marina?” Cody said. “Would anybody have been out there after you closed?”
“I doubt it. The marina’s shut down for the winter.”
“The cabins back there—are many rented?”
“A few, maybe. We’re too far from the ski resorts and casinos to attract many winter tourists.”
Cody stared off and shook his head imperceptibly.
“Where would I go to make a room reservation?” I asked.
“The main hotel. Just follow the road back to the highway.”
“Come on,” Cody said, and we ambled out of the place. A plowed road led from the parking lot. In the forested area next to the road sat a number of cabins, but the paths leading to them were snowed in.
“Why would the killer pick this place to dump Terry’s body?” I said.
“Except for the restaurant, it looks pretty deserted. Maybe just a safe, convenient place.”
“Dumping Valerie in the mountains sure wasn’t convenient.”
“Maybe our assumption it’s the same guy is wrong.”
I stepped around a patch of ice. “I think I’ll call Jack Meyers.”
“Who?”
“South Lake Coroner.”
“The old guy who swills whiskey?”
“Yeah.”
I punched numbers in my cell as we neared the Camp Richardson hotel, a two-story stone and wood structure hidden from the highway by a swath of pines. I got Meyer’s voice mail and left a message.
We climbed the split log stairs to the entrance and went inside, where a fire was crackling in a huge river-rock fireplace. The lobby was large and sectioned by thick timbers supporting the ceiling. In the corner, a young blond woman stood behind a counter.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good afternoon and welcome,” she said, her smile from a toothpaste ad. Blue eyes, straight, shiny hair, body slender and athletic.
“Hi there,” Cody said, and handed her a card. “We’re looking into the body found on the beach New Year’s Day.”
“Oh, my god.” Her eyes fell open as if horrified by the mere mention of it.
Cody put his elbow on the counter and leaned forward.
“We’re trying to find a witness. Were you working New Year’s Eve?”
“No. That would be our night manager.”
“Can you tell us how many rooms, or cabins, were rented out that night?” I said.
“Well, yes. I could tell you that.” She smiled again, happy to help, and added, “We don’t see much business this time of year. Winter is our slow season.” Her eyes scanned a screen.
“We had four rooms occupied here in the hotel, but only one cabin, one of our biggest. A two bedroom, sleeps eight.
“Are they still there?” Cody said.
“No, they left New Year’s Day.”
“How about any of the hotel occupants? Any still checked in?”
She typed for a minute, then looked up at us, an apology in her eyes. “No, they all left already.”
“Dear, could you write down the names and phone numbers of the guests?” Cody said.
“Well, I probably should ask permission.”
“We won’t tell anyone it came from you.”
“Promise?”
Cody winked. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She showed off her teeth again, and in a minute, we left with a page she had printed for us.
We began back toward Cody’s truck, hiking parallel to the highway on a bike trail the hotel kept cleared of snow. Ahead of us, someone was sitting on a bench along the trail. When we got closer, I could see it was a local homeless man known as Saint Alphonso.
He was a large black fellow, his steel wool beard partially hidden by the collar of a once white coat pulled up high around his face. The wrinkles beneath his red-rimmed eyes were deep and looked caked with soot. Next to him sat a battered red backpack fitted with a pair of wheels on an aluminum frame.
“What’s happening, Alphonso?”
He gave me a startled look, then blinked in recognition.
“Hullo, Suh. How you?”
“Good. What are you doing way out here?”
He shrugged and didn’t answer.
Cody pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and Alphonso watched him light up.
“Ah trouble you for a smoke, suh?”
Cody gave him a Marlboro, and Alphonso took it between his tortoise-shell fingernails.
“You have somewhere to stay nearby?” I asked. I took the lighter from Cody’s han
ds and gave Alphonso a light. His lips were cracked and scabbed over.
Alphonso shut his eyes and inhaled. “Ah doin’ awright.”
“Two nights ago, a man dumped a woman’s body on the beach out there.” I pointed behind him.
“Ah knows that.”
“You do?”
“Yes, suh. Ah seen it.”
“What did you see?” Cody said.
“Just what you said.”
“Can I sit here, Alphonso?” I pointed to his backpack. He looked at me, then moved the pack.
“Suit yourself.”
I sat in a cloud of smoke. “About what time did you see this?”
“Oh, two or three in da mornin’.”
“Where were you?”
“In my campin’ spot. Ah seen da man’s pickup a comin’ wit no lights. Den he stop and take her and dump her off like a sack a trash, drag her out dere.”
“Did you get a good look at the man?” Cody said.
“Nah. He was a piece away an’ it was dark dat night.”
“Was he short? Tall?”
“Ah say, medium.”
“Think, Alphonso,” I said. “This is important. Are there any details of this man you remember?”
Alphonso closed his eyes again and took a deep drag and exhaled slowly from his nostrils.
“He was wearin’ a beanie on his head. Ah could see da shape.”
“How about his truck? Could you see the color?”
“No, suh.”
“Was it a big truck? Or a smaller one?”
“Ah say, medium.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Was it a diesel engine?” Cody said. “You know what a diesel sounds like?”
“Ah dint hear no diesel. It was a regular motor.”
I stood. “Ah help you more if ah could. Ah dint like seein’ dat.”
I took a card from my wallet and on the back wrote, free lunch and a beer, and initialed it.
“Stop by Zeke’s next time you’re hungry, Alphonso. They’ll take care of you.
“Yes, suh.”
“Please call me if you remember anything about the man or the truck.”
“Ah do that.”
• • •
Cody declined my offer to stay for dinner and dropped me off where my truck was parked at the ski resort. The sun fell behind the western ridges as I drove down the grade, and a low moon glowed radiant in the dimmed sky. When I got home I put away my ski gear in the garage and brought Valerie Horvachek’s purse inside. Candi heard me and peeked out from her art room.
“I hope you won’t be mad at me,” she said, her face uncharacteristically sheepish.
“Why would I?”
“I brought you home a little surprise.”
“You did?”
She stepped from the room, and in her arms was a ball of gray fur. I walked over and saw she held a kitten. It looked at me with lime green eyes and meowed.
“You told me you liked cats,” she said.
“I do, but…”
“Isn’t he cute?”
I reached out and petted the kitten’s head. It was a long hair variety, its fur billowy and gray as oil smoke. “He’s quite a fluffy guy,” I said.
“I think he’s adorable.” She held him up and touched the kitten’s nose with her own. “Here,” she said, handing me the furry ball. It was small enough that I could cradle it securely in one hand.
“Where did you get him?”
“A lady in front of the grocery store had a litter in a box. When I saw him, I couldn’t resist. His name’s Smokey.”
I sat down, and the kitten meowed and licked my knuckle.
“Oh my,” Candi said. “He likes you.”
“We’ll need to keep him inside, at least until he’s bigger,” I said. “Coyotes hunt out there in the meadow.”
Candi took the kitten from me and put it in a cardboard box lined with blankets. Smokey promptly climbed out and began exploring the family room. I let Candi tend to our new pet while I boiled water for pasta and made a green salad. While the spaghetti cooked, I poured myself a tall whiskey seven and Candi joined me at the table with her ceramic pipe and baggie of pot.
“How’s the investigation coming?” She plucked a clogged screen out of the pipe bowl with her fingernails and replaced it with a new one.
“Too early to say. Making progress, but not sure where it’s heading.”
“Cody is still staying at Pistol Pete’s?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he okay?”
I took a long sip. “I think so.”
“Has a funeral been scheduled yet?”
“Cody and Marcus Grier contacted her family. I imagine her parents are making arrangements.”
She exhaled a hit through a window she had cracked open. “Is Cody going to the funeral?”
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“Do you think he should?”
“I think his focus is on finding who killed her.”
“Oh.” She studied her pipe and began reloading it. “How long do you think it will take?”
I put down my glass and smiled at her. “Honey, it’s impossible to say.”
“Tell Cody to join us for dinner tomorrow. He shouldn’t be grieving alone.”
“I invited him tonight, but he said no, thanks.”
“Well, tell him I insist for tomorrow, okay?”
“I’ll tell him.”
• • •
We finished eating and Candi was tending to the dishes, when my cell rang. It was Jack Myers, the coroner, returning my call.
“What is it you want, Reno?” he said, his voice crusty from a lifetime of booze and cigars.
“Evening, Jack. I’m investigating the murder of Terry Molina.”
“Good for you.”
“Have you done the autopsy yet?”
“Just the preliminary, if it’s any of your business.”
“It is my business. Like I said, I’m investigating her murder.”
“Are you being a smart ass with me?”
“Not intentionally, Jack.”
“Your intentions can kiss my ass. You can kiss my ass, too.”
“What did I say to deserve that?”
“Everything.”
“How about if I buy you a drink?” I said.
“Jesus Christ, am I that easy?”
“You’re never easy.”
“Fine, you big bastard,” he grunted. “Meet me over at the King’s Head.”
He hung up and I told Candi I’d try not to be long. I put on my coat and went out to the garage and, ten minutes later, pulled up to South Lake Tahoe’s sole British pub, a Tudor building next to a condo complex on a side street off 50. When I got out of my truck, I saw Jack Myers grunting his way from his sedan, leaning heavily on a cane as he swore and grimaced.
“Need a hand?” I said.
“What, I look like a cripple?” His blue eyes glared at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows.
“No, you look like a gymnast ready to hit the parallel bars.”
“Hilarious. Get the door for me, would you? It’s my cursed spine again.”
I opened the door to the bar and held it while Jack hobbled forward. He’d had a knee replaced recently and was considering back surgery. After a long career as a coroner in Houston and San Francisco, he’d moved to Tahoe to retire, but reconsidered after going crazy with boredom. He now said he intended to work until he was no longer physically able. By the looks of him, that might not be too far off.
We sat at the bar and Jack groaned and ordered a scotch rocks. “My daughter and her kids came by yesterday. My grandson, the surly punk, shot his mouth off, and I had to kick his ass.”
“Your grandson? How old is he?”
“Six. The tough little son of a bitch made me wrench my back.”
“Maybe you should pick on guys your own age.”
“What a thoughtful comment. You’ll see what it’s like to get old one day, if you’r
e lucky. Are you gonna order something, or am I drinking alone?”
I got a cocktail and Jack and I chatted for a while, over the drone of a British commentator calling a soccer game on TV. Our history went back a few years to a violent case that involved the uncovering of a corrupt county sheriff’s activities. Jack claimed the flurry of autopsies he did as a result caused the beginnings of his back problems.
“What do you want to know about Terry Molina?” he said, after ordering a second scotch.
“How did she die?”
“She was strangled with a rope.”
“Was she knocked unconscious first?”
“Appears so by the contusion behind her ear. But she was awake when she was strangled.”
“How do you know?”
“Traces of smelling salts in her nostrils. Also, her fingernails were broken, likely trying to claw at her assailant. There’s skin under her nails. My guess is whoever killed her woke her first. Wanted her to know what was happening.”
I swirled the watery dregs of my highball. “Did she have sex that night?”
“Depends if you use the Bill Clinton definition,” Jack said with a chuckle.
“Huh?”
“She gave someone a blow job. There were still traces of semen on her chin.”
“Oh. Any sign she was raped?”
“No. Rapists usually don’t risk getting their dongs bit off.”
I was struck with a lurid image of Terry performing oral sex on Nick Galanis. Maybe Galanis asked for a blow job to give him a break from Terry’s blather. I tried to ignore the thought, but couldn’t avoid a smile.
“How about the rope, Jack? Any idea what type it was?”
“Half inch variety. Appears a tight nylon weave.”
“Like a mountaineer’s rope?”
“Possibly, yeah.”
“Have you seen Douglas County’s autopsy results for Valerie Horvachek, the strangled girl in Nevada?” I asked.
“No. I’ll compare notes with them tomorrow, after I finish the full autopsy.”
I leaned forward on my elbows. “What else, Jack? Who do you think did this?”
“Son, I’ve been studying murders since before you were born. But that don’t mean I’ve got a crystal ball. All I can tell you is it was a sadist. The type who looked into her eyes as he snuffed her, wanted her to know he had the say whether she lived or died.”
“Okay, but what’s the motive? Money? Love?”