by Dave Stanton
“Hey, man. We’re at your house. You’re not gonna believe this shit, but someone just shot at us. No, I’m not fuckin’ kidding. There was a truck parked out front on the road. Gerhard and me went to check it out and two shots were fired. Huh? No, we ain’t hit. But they were close, like fuckin’ close. It wasn’t like anyone huntin’ squirrels across the street, either, I’m talking sounded like a thirty ought six, or a nine mil. We weren’t packin’ you know, so we boogied like a motherfucker, came back about five minutes later and the truck was gone. No, it was dark, never saw anyone. What, I can barely hear you, man. The truck? A big pickup, maybe one of those Jap rides, or a Ford, I don’t fuckin’ know. Hey look, the hell you expect us to do?
“The front door was locked. I’ll check the others. Right. I’ll go check out back too. Call you back in five minutes.
“Shit. Give the pipe a damn break, Gerhard. Grab that big flashlight in the drawer and come on.”
The recording skipped forward seven minutes. Then, “The lab looks cool, Jake. No one’s messed with it. No one’s been in the house either, that I can tell. Right, we’ll wait here.”
For the next hour, I listened to a ceaseless stream of inane babble, clearly alcohol and drug induced. The conversation went in circles and was hard to follow, but the two men finally decided a couple of Mexicans from the Blood Bastards likely fired the shots. Their blather then shifted to issues involving drug dealing turf, and their ideas on putting the hurt on the “jungle bunnies and beaners.” They discussed the best methods for exterminating their enemies, debating over explosives, poison, and machine gun attacks. Then the subject switched to torture, as in “You know what would really make my dick hard? Branding a spic with swastikas and then video him admitting that all Mexicans are good for is performing cheap labor for the white man. Then tie him to a bumper and drag him until there ain’t no brown skin left on him.”
At 9:40 a door slammed and a new voice spoke, one I recognized as Jake Massie’s.
“Tell me about the truck.”
“Shit, we barely got to it before those shots. I was gonna slash the tires.”
“And you didn’t even see what make it was?”
“I think it was a Ford,” the other man said.
“Yeah, looked like a Ford.”
“You said it could have been a Jap truck,” Massie said.
“Yeah, they make ripoff copies of Fords and Chevys.”
“You fuckin’ guys,” Massie sighed.
“My opinion, it was probably the Bastards. It looks like your brother figured out we fucked his territory.”
“Do yourself a favor, Strick. Don’t think too hard. From now on, we don’t leave this place empty. Someone needs to be here at all times.”
“You got it, Jake.”
Music came on, loud death metal, and it obscured any conversation for the remainder of the recording.
For a few minutes, I pondered what I’d heard. If any of it had the vaguest connection to Valerie’s murder, it escaped me. The good news was Jake Massie might soon have his hands full with the trouble brewing between him and his brother. Whether Massie believed the truck belonged to the Blood Bastards, or if he was suspicious it was mine, I couldn’t tell.
I exited the program and plugged in the external hard drive I’d connected to Massie’s computer. The device whirred and a file menu appeared on my screen. I clicked on the Word icon and found three documents. The first was titled “White Power Now,” and it was thirty pages of racist propaganda, some of it well-written and trying for a scientific tone, but then it dissolved into a spew of racial slurs that blamed nonwhites for all the world’s problems. I scanned it for five minutes, then opened the next doc, one apparently written by Massie, titled “War Dogs Manifest.” It read like a standard version of gang membership rules, all about loyalty to fellow members and secrecy and a pledge to never cooperate with the police. There was also a section specifying that since Jews, Hispanics, Blacks, and all nonwhites were inferior, crimes against them were part of the natural order and to be encouraged.
The third doc was a letter Massie had apparently begun writing to his brother:
Virgil,
We been thru a lot of shit together, you and me. I sometimes think about back in Tennessee. You riding that blue bike with the knobby tires. What happened to that bike? Was it stole or did the old man sell it for beer money? At least you had a bike. We had it rough then. Life’s a bitch and then you die, huh? Except you never did hard time, that’s why you don’t understand things like I do. The old man always said you were the smart one and I was dumb as a rock. But he knew I was stronger than you. He always knew that. And he knew you were weak.
I never told you about my first week in the pen. You don’t understand my ways because you ain’t been thru what I have. You get jumped by the mexican mafia or the black gorillas, you learn things. The light comes on and the truth comes out. It ain’t hard to see once you been thru it.
The letter stopped there, unfinished.
Next I went to a file that linked to his e-mail account. Most of the activity was exchanges with four different women. After reading through dozens of messages, it became clear the women had contacted Massie through some sort of prison dating service. Much of the correspondence had pictures attached, mostly of the women posing nude in lurid detail.
It was almost happy hour when I finished up. Good thing, because I wasn’t happy and I needed a drink. Not a single thing in Massie’s computer, or in any of the tapes I’d spent hours listening to, suggested either biker gang knew Nick Galanis or was involved in Valerie’s murder. The only mention of Valerie was by a Suave employee talking to Zayas about Roscoe. Zayas’s response did not indicate he was complicit or even interested.
I paced around my house, wondering whether the biker angle was a waste of time, or if the clues were there but just hovering beyond my mental grasp. I sat and rubbed my jaw and tried to search through the jumble of information in my head. I’d learned a lot about the Blood Bastards, the War Dogs, and Mike Zayas. Unfortunately, none of it was getting me anywhere, and I’d just burned a complete workday reaching that conclusion.
At that moment, my phone rang, and I cringed when I saw it was the general calling.
“Investigations.”
“It’s Ray Horvachek, Reno. I was expecting to see another report yesterday.”
“Sorry, I was working late last night.”
“Spending the time productively?”
I paused. “I don’t know yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m looking into Valerie’s employment at the Suave Gentlemen’s Club, and her relationship with a biker gang that frequents the establishment.”
“Do you think these people are involved in her murder?”
“I have suspicions, but no evidence.”
“What about your other leads?”
“I’m still working them. I’ll let you know.”
“Make sure you do. I want to make sure I’m not pouring money down a piss hole.”
“I’ll send you a report tonight.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
We hung up, and I poured the last of the coffee from this morning’s pot and heated it in the microwave. I went back to my desk and drank it halfway down, then assembled my notes on the case, both handwritten and typed. There were almost thirty names and numbers from Valerie’s phone. There were also the names of four parties who had rented properties at Camp Richardson during New Years Eve, potential witnesses to the dumping of Terry’s body. In addition, I had the list of Blood Bastards and War Dogs members that Albert Bigelow had provided. Other miscellaneous things were scrawled in my notebook, like a reminder to reach Valerie’s friend Christie Tedford, and also to interview Valerie’s counselor in Sacramento. Also, a note about following up on snowmobile licenses. And a scribbled notion to interview Nick Galanis’s partner, Greg McMann.
Smokey appeared at the doorway and started mewing.
I picked him up and opened a packet of cat food. The kitten ate while I stood in the kitchen finishing my coffee. When he finished eating, he jumped onto my shin and began climbing my jeans. He made it to my knee before I pried him free and held him for a bit. Then I called Marcus Grier’s cell.
“Hello, Marcus. Got a minute?” It had just turned five o’clock.
“What’s up?”
“Have there been any developments on Galanis and the two murders?”
“Not much. Galanis issued a formal statement saying he’ll fully cooperate with all police agencies involved, and Douglas County resources will be focused a hundred percent on the case.”
“He’s trying to position it as if he has nothing to hide.”
“Maybe he doesn’t.”
“I still think he may be taking dirty money from a biker gang.”
“Have you found any evidence of this?”
“No,” I admitted. “Just a theory.”
“You come up with something better, let me know.”
“I want to talk to Galanis.”
Grier paused for a long moment, then he sighed. “At this point, I don’t see why not,” he said. “Doubt it’ll do much good, though.”
“We’ll see. How about your detective, Worley? Is he getting anywhere?”
“He’s working it. Listen, I’d love to pour over every detail of the case with you, but I gotta go.”
“Talk to you later, then.”
The squeak of the garage door told me Candi was home. I went to the garage and opened the door to her idling Subaru and took from her hand the large bag she carried to work.
“Thank you, Dan.”
“Sure, babe. I’m gonna make us a homemade pizza tonight.”
“Sounds great.”
“Everything good at the college?”
She began telling a story about changes she was implementing to the art curriculum. I made a drink, she loaded her pipe, and we chatted while I spread tomato sauce on a premade crust and began shredding a ball of mozzarella. The oven heated the kitchen, and I looked over the counter at Candi and felt a surge of overwhelming affection. She had come into my life and brought brightness and warmth to my solitary existence. The sordid pall my work sometimes cast over me evaporated in her presence. The year before I met her now seemed like someone else’s life, a long stretch of bar time broken by occasional one-nighters with women often more drunk and lonely than I was. I did not miss those awkward mornings after, fraught with furtive glances and sheepish regret.
It had been entirely different with Candi. We’d met out in Elko during a case. Our courtship started tentatively, on my part anyway, but quickly evolved to the point where she was in my thoughts constantly. The second time we slept together, we began talking of her moving into my place. Though our careers were at opposite ends of the spectrum, we seemed to view life through the same lens. This I accounted to our similar backgrounds: we were both raised in families supported by men who worked in law enforcement.
While Candi was grounded, proper, and intelligent, she was also light-hearted, naughty, and quite willing to be silly. These contradictions were the basis of her personality, and though I tried to keep my emotions in check, I found her intoxicating and irresistible. I could no longer deny I wanted her to be a permanent part of my life.
Amid these feelings, or because of them, I had a growing trepidation over the danger she could be exposed to as the result of my work. Above all, I would not let her be at risk. Whatever I did, I would not let that happen.
The evening passed, and our conversation was light with casual familiarity. We ended up in the bedroom, made love, and dressed again for a continuation of happy hour. I was pleasantly buzzed when we came to bed to sleep, but the weight in my stomach was still lurking, like a roughly idling motor that begged for the throttles to be thrown wide open.
9
Clouds had moved in and there was no hint of blue when I checked the sky the next morning. I let Candi sleep in, took my coffee outside, and peered up at the distant ridgeline. The ski resort gondola heading up the mountain disappeared into a white mist.
By half past eight, we’d loaded our gear into my truck, and at nine sharp we caught the day’s first chair up the California side of the resort. Candi was wearing pink boarder pants and a lime green coat. On her snowboard a yellow smiley face sticker winked at me.
“Looks icy,” she said, looking down. The steep mogul run beneath us was shiny and hacked into sharp angles.
“It probably melted yesterday and froze overnight,” I said. We both studied the snow and frowned.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make the best of it.”
“Probably better at the top,” she replied.
We reached the crest of the ridge and glided off into the flat light toward the chair that would take us to the summit. The lack of contrast between the sky and the snow was disorienting. If it was much worse up top we might have to wait and hope for the clouds to lift.
Huddled against the cold in the summit chair, I put my arm around Candi and told myself to enjoy the day regardless of the conditions. Skiing is a sport where the weather can make or break any day. Blue sky powder days are every skier’s dream, but today was the other side of the coin.
When the chair neared the summit, I told Candi to turn left, toward the Nevada side. There were runs there that didn’t get much direct sun, so the snow would likely be in better shape. I skated along a flat trail, towing Candi with a pole. We dropped off the trail into the trees and the visibility improved. The snow was chopped up but not hard, and we got in some good turns. Then we came out onto a groomed run at speed, and I almost caught an edge and went down.
“Not bad,” Candi breathed, as we headed back to the chair. More people were arriving, but the resort was still relatively empty.
“Be careful on the groomed. There’re icy patches.”
“I saw you almost eat it.”
“What? I never wipe out.”
“Super stud.” She grinned, her teeth white against her flush skin.
We continued to find decent snow, until around 10:30 a lift line developed and we moved on, deeper into Nevada. Traversing across the mountainside, we came around a wide bend and stopped to take in the view of the desert four thousand feet below. We were not far from the spot where I’d ducked the boundary ropes the morning I’d found Valerie Horvachek. But I’d promised myself I would not think about that today.
It was nearing lunchtime when we were on a broad groomed run and I saw a man lose it on some icy bumps aside the piste. His tips crossed and he got turned backward, tried desperately to save it, but a mogul caught him and he somersaulted and lost his skis. After slamming off a bump, he slid to a stop, cursing and holding his leg. I gathered his skis and came up behind him.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Jesus, my knee. Oh shit.” He was a middle-aged guy, his face twisted in pain.
I jammed his skis into the hard-pack, forming an X to signal he was injured.
“How bad?” I said.
He sat up and put both hands on his knee and tried to move it. “Bad,” he said.
“We’ll go get ski patrol,” Candi said.
We skied down, and I told the lift operator a man was down and would probably need a toboggan. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, and we got on the chair and headed back to the summit.
Not ten minutes had passed, but three patrollers in red jackets had already reached the injured man when we came out of the trees above where he’d wiped out. Two of the patrollers knelt talking to the man while the third maneuvered a rescue gurney into place.
“Give me a second, Candi. I want to say hello to these fellows.” I pushed off and made a wide turn and skidded to a stop near a patroller who had just stood. He had white sideburns and was in his fifties.
“I was the one who reported it down at the chair. He’ll be all right?”
“Sure, thanks. We got it under control.” The man smiled, his skin tan and sun-wr
inkled. The other two patrollers glanced up at me. Both in their early twenties. One gave me a shrug while his partner secured the unfortunate skier to the gurney. His motions were sure and he moved with the confidence of an experienced hand. Just as I realized I was staring, he looked over at me.
“Can I help you?” he said.
• • •
We had lunch outdoors on the large deck at the mid-mountain lodge. Rock and roll played from speakers mounted high and people sat among their gloves and goggles and ate twelve-dollar burgers and drank beer. I ordered minestrone soup, part of my commitment to a healthier diet.
“What are you thinking?” Candi said. I looked up from my food and realized I’d been ignoring her.
“I think I promised myself I’d not think about my case, and I’m breaking that promise. I think I’ve got fixated on these bikers, and that’s distracting me from where I should be focusing my effort.”
“I thought you were convinced the bikers were involved.”
“I’m not anymore.”
“Do you have a new theory?”
I looked out beyond the railing at the skiers and boarders coming off the slope and merging into the roped aisles to the chair lift. Like a confused jumble funneled into an orderly sequence.
“I’m starting to think Valerie and Terry were killed only because they slept with Nick Galanis,” I said. “Not because of anything having to do with bikers or drugs.”
She looked at me quizzically.
Afterward, we skied a couple more runs, but the visibility grew worse and we called it day before two o’clock. When we got home, Candi left to go shopping and I went to my office and pulled out the copy of the police report the general had given me. I reread the sections describing Douglas County’s investigative work. They had done a seemingly thorough job interviewing potential witnesses. That was always the first tactic in an investigation. Find an eyewitness, and it was like knocking a hole in a dike. Soon the hole would expand, and information would start to gush.
Except no witnesses had been discovered, with the exception of Saint Alphonso, a homeless derelict who claimed only to glimpse a dark pickup truck and a nondescript man wearing a beanie. And that was in connection with Terry’s murder, not Valerie’s.