Dark Ice: A Hard-Boiled Crime Novel: (Dan Reno Private Detective Noir Mystery Series) (Dan Reno Novel Series Book 4)

by Dave Stanton

  I went back to the section where Galanis claimed to call Valerie a cab, which she left his residence to wait for. Although she had a heavy coat, it seemed odd she would not wait inside. Maybe she was anxious to leave Galanis’s townhouse. Maybe she no longer felt welcome there, as in, thanks for the piece of ass, honey, now show yourself out.

  I needed to contact Tahoe Taxi. Both Valerie and Terry had left Galanis’s home to wait for a cab, which showed up and, finding no customer, left. Or did something else happen? Maybe the taxi driver was a predator, targeting sexy blond women. Maybe the opportunity to kill Valerie and Terry, two women alone late at night, was too tempting to pass up. Was it the same cab driver that was supposed to pick up both Valerie and Terry? If so, did that cabbie own a dark pickup or a snowmobile? Or maybe he delivered the women to someone who did. Could be two killers involved.

  Two killers. Possibly working together on both murders. Or, could be two killers working independently, meaning Valerie and Terry were not killed by the same person, and there was no connection between their deaths. There was little commonality in where their bodies were disposed—one in a remote, difficult to reach place, the other in a very conspicuous, public spot. But both were strangled, and both of their purses were recovered intact, save for their driver’s licenses. And both had just had a sexual encounter at Nick Galanis’s home.

  Many possibilities, many maybes. Very little solid information. There was still the perplexing matter of how Valerie’s body could have ended up in such inaccessible location. And there was also the elephant in the room, the obvious conclusion that somehow Nick Galanis must be linked to both murders.

  I found the address for Tahoe Taxi on the Internet. Five minutes later, I was shaved and wearing the black coat I favored when trying to look official. I drove six miles west through town, past the timeshare resorts and hotels and tourist shopping complexes. When I reached the juncture of 50 and Highway 89 that locals referred to as the Y, I turned right and parked in front of a modest stand-alone building that had once been the business office for a used car dealership. A half-dozen silver vehicles were parked in the small, chain-link enclosed lot behind the building.

  Inside the glass door, two desks sat in an office cluttered with newspapers and magazines. Behind one desk was a man with thick glasses popular in my parents’ generation. His hair was black and definitely dyed, and he wore a plaid wool shirt. At the other desk sat a woman in a yellow dress, the bangs of her plastic blond hair in a line midway up her forehead. A married couple in the latter part of middle age—transplants from some other state, not native Californians. They both looked at me with wary expressions. Maybe thought I was a salesman.

  “Do you need a taxi?” the woman said.

  “No. I’m looking into the deaths of two women who were supposed to be picked up by one of your cabs.”

  “Oh,” said the man. “Yes, that. Terrible thing. We’ve spoke to the police twice already.”

  “I’ve been hired by one of the girl’s parents. Can you answer a couple questions for me?”

  They looked at each other, then the man said, “I didn’t get your name.”

  I handed him a card. “Private investigator, huh?” he said. “Okay. Take a seat, mister.” I lowered myself into a wooden chair in the corner.

  “I doubt this will help you much, but this is the same as I told the police. It was my brother who went out to that condo on Christmas Eve and New Year’s. He’s our graveyard driver. Same thing both times. He showed up, no one was there, so he left.”

  “Did he call the number that called in for the cab?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “Did he see anything unusual either night?

  “Not that he told me. You’d have to talk to him yourself.”

  “How can I reach him?”

  He looked at his watch. “He’ll be here in half an hour.”

  I left and drove down the street to a Mexican cantina and drank a soda while watching a sports talk show I couldn’t hear. A group of young people with bright eyes sat at a nearby table drinking margaritas and shots. Their hair was mussed, their faces red from cold and wind. They bantered loudly, exaggerating tales of big air and wipeouts and injuries and epic moments. I sipped slowly, and when my glass was empty I headed back to the Tahoe Taxi office.

  The man and his wife were both at their desks talking on the phone. I sat and waited in the chair in the corner, and a minute later the glass door opened. The fellow that hobbled in was around sixty, his face fleshy and mottled beneath his sparse hair. He had watery blue eyes and wore an elastic back brace around his thick midsection.

  “Hello, sir. I’m Dan Reno, private investigations.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re here about those poor girls?”

  I nodded and stood to offer him my chair.

  “Thank you. I’m Art Crume.”

  “Hi, Art. I’d like to ask you about Christmas and New Year’s Eve.”

  “Okay, young man,” he said. He shifted his weight on the chair and winced.

  “Can you describe what happened when you showed up at Nick Galanis’s condo on December 23rd?”

  “It was actually the 24th. I arrived at 2:15 in the morning.”

  “Right.”

  “I waited ten minutes in front of the driveway. The lights were out in the condo. When no one showed, I called the number we received the call from. A man answered, said he didn’t know where the customer was. He apologized and hung up.”

  “Did you see anybody at all while you were waiting? Any people, or cars?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How about when you arrived at the complex?”

  “When I pulled in, I passed a car leaving.”

  “What kind of car?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember. It was dark and its lights were in my eyes.”

  “Was it a pickup?”

  He shook his big head again, folds of skin creasing at his neck. “Could have been, I suppose. The lights seemed high, so maybe it was.”

  “When you talked to the police, did they ask you about this?”

  “Yes. And I told them the same as I just told you.”

  “All right. Let’s talk about New Year’s. What time did you get the call?

  “1:55 A.M. Arrived there at 2:05. Same thing as Christmas Eve. I called the number after ten minutes, and the man said he didn’t know what happened to the customer. Said she should be out there waiting.”

  “He didn’t come out to talk to you, huh?”

  “No, sir. The cop, Galanis, right? He was drunk, I believe. Sounded like I woke him.”

  “Hmm. Did you see anyone while you were there?”

  “Not a soul. But I do remember a vehicle this time. It was parked on the side of the road when I turned into the condos. Wouldn’t have noticed except the headlights came on behind me. I saw it drive off in my mirror.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “A Ford Ranger,” he said without hesitation. “I worked for years in the repair business. I know cars.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “No.”

  “How about the color? Or any other detail?”

  “Dark blue or maybe black. A 2000 model, I think.

  “Any other detail you remember? Any dents?”

  “Not that I could see. It was a regular cab model. Not a deluxe cab.”

  “Are you sure it was a 2000?”

  “No, it could have been a ’98 through 2002. The bodies are very similar.”

  I noticed the woman was no longer on the phone and was now listening to our conversation. I felt awkward standing over the cabbie and wished there was somewhere to sit so we could be at eye level.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a couple personal questions, Art?”

  He looked surprised, then smiled. “Why not? I doubt you’ll offend me.”

  “I’ll try not to. Are you married?”

  “Not anymore. Wife passed on. Cancer got her.”r />
  “I’m sorry to hear that. How about kids?”

  “Got two. Grown and raised. Son got his college degree and works for a company in Texas. My daughter is married back in Ohio.”

  “You’re from Ohio?

  “Spent most of my life in Akron. Moved here to be with my brother a few years back. Thought I might even try some skiing, funny as that sounds.”

  “Bad knee?”

  “Knees are okay. Back and hip are the problems. Probably have to get the hip replaced here sometime, if it doesn’t improve.”

  “You got a good chiropractor?”

  “I’ve been seeing Gordy Chapman over on 50. He’s got me in traction. Seems to help.”

  It was silent for a moment, then I handed him my card. “Please call me if you remember anything else,” I said.

  He handed me his card in return. “Call me if you ever need a cab.”

  • • •

  You run into all sorts in interviews. Criminals don’t usually cooperate much, regardless of their guilt or innocence, unless there’s something in it for them. Then there are those who don’t want to get involved because they fear being dragged into trouble. Conversely, I’ve interviewed people who knew nothing but wanted to be my buddy and spewed forth all sorts of baseless conjectures. And occasionally you get those wracked with guilt and anxiety, who will confess to anything.

  Then there are types like the cabbie Art Crume. Upfront and innocuous, apparently with nothing to hide. It was hard to imagine him involved in the murders, hard to imagine him physically capable. Or maybe that was exactly what he wanted me to think.

  I drove back up 50, and about a mile before Zeke’s I pulled into a parking lot serving a cluster of businesses. A neighborhood bar, a dry cleaner, a pizza joint, and tucked in the far end, a sign for Mountain Chiropractic.

  I parked in one of the four vacant spots in front and went into the small lobby, where a too-skinny blonde with volleyball breasts sat behind a counter.

  “Hi, I’m Crystal, welcome to Mountain Chiropractic, how may I be of assistance?” she chirped. She may have been legal drinking age, but I’d have bet a car payment against it.

  “Gordy in?”

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh. Please have a seat, and I’ll be right back.” She went through a curtain, top heavy and teetering on heels. A minute later she came back and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Chapman is with a patient. Can I make an appointment for you?”

  I ignored her and walked around the counter and through the curtain. Down a short hallway, I picked the first door to the right, where Gordy Chapin sat with his legs crossed reading a magazine titled Hot Vacation Spots.

  “Keeping busy, Gordy?” I said.

  He looked up and his eyes jumped. “What the—”

  “Is that your new squeeze out there?”

  Gordy’s face flushed red. He had curly blond hair and a fake suntan and wore a white puka-shell necklace. He unfolded his slender six-foot frame and rose from his chair, but froze when I took a step forward. Gordy had been arrested on a child molestation charge a while back for having sex with a thirteen-year-old girl. In his defense, he said she claimed she was eighteen. His attorney hired me to dig up the dirt on the girl, who I learned lost her virginity at eleven and had slept with a number of middle-aged men. But I’d also learned that Gordy Chapman had a penchant for school-aged girls and had narrowly avoided prosecution twice before. At the conclusion of the case, he tried to thank me, and I let him know where we stood. On the occasions I’d seen him around town afterward, he’d moved rapidly in the opposite direction.

  “What do you want?” he stammered.

  “You seeing a patient named Art Crume?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I want to see his file.”

  “There’s a thing called doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “That doesn’t apply to you, Gordy. You ain’t a real doctor.” I stepped over to a file cabinet and pulled open the top drawer and grabbed a handful of files.

  “You have no right to—”

  The words became a gargle in his throat when I flung the folders at him and grabbed another bunch. “These aren’t even in alphabetical order,” I said.

  Gordy came at me and tried to pry the folders from my grip, but I stopped him with a stiff hand to the throat. I tossed the files over my shoulder and pulled another batch from the drawer.

  “They’re in the bottom drawer, for crying out loud,” Gordy said. I let him get to the cabinet. He poked around, muttering, then handed me the file for Art Crume.

  “What’s his condition?”

  “He’s got degenerative disc disease, a bulging disc, and moderate sciatica.”

  “What’s the effect on his daily activities?”

  “He needs to be careful with his posture, and extremely careful when lifting anything over ten pounds or so.”

  “How about fifty pounds or more?”

  “He knows better. It could rupture his disc, meaning back surgery.”

  I looked through the file and stopped at a sheet showing MRI photos.

  “You see there,” Gordy said. “That disc is bulging against the nerve.”

  I slapped him in the chest with the file. “Have a nice day,” I said, and walked back out to the lobby. The receptionist stared at me with big eyes as I opened the glass door. I paused for a second, but I had no advice for her.

  • • •

  While Candi got ready for dinner, I ran Art Crume’s name through my people search program. There was a purpose behind the questions I’d asked him about his personal life: I wanted to see if I could catch him in a lie. But I verified he was in fact a widower from Ohio, with two children. Further, he had no police record. There was even a reference I found to his auto repair business, which was said to still be reputable after he sold it.

  It began snowing when Candi and I left for a restaurant. Tiny flurries danced down from the darkness above and swirled in my headlights. As we headed toward the state line, the Friday night traffic slowed our progress, until we passed a rental sedan that had spun out and was blocking a lane. The rear tires were wedged in a snow bank and spun futilely and the passengers sat staring and silent, as if mystified by their dilemma. I wondered if they regretted putting themselves in an avoidable situation, or if they were just oblivious. I shook the thought from my head and drove on.

  10

  The next morning, a few inches of fresh snow coated my deck. Wind swept in from the meadow, blowing white wisps from the huge pine out front. I drank coffee with Candi and watched Smoky bounce around the family room until 9:00 A.M. When she retreated to her room to paint, I left the house and drove into Nevada, to Nick Galanis’s condo complex.

  The development was carved out of a grove of evergreens where the land flattened at the end of a steep stretch of winding road. The condominiums were linked by cobblestone paths and little bridges that meandered through the acreage. There were a few small parking areas, but most of the units looked to have their own attached garages.

  I found Galanis’s address and parked down the road, then walked along the quiet street past his home. It was a two-story unit tucked between two others like it. The front door was natural wood and looked freshly lacquered. Above the door was a pair of large bay windows. On the nearby paths the snow was neatly plowed, and a manmade stream meandered and gurgled quietly. Tall pines shaded the area and made for a private, secluded feel.

  Across the street from the address was a swath of forested land. I walked over to the snow pack and saw I could hide behind any number of pines and view Galanis’s place. From there, I hiked across the snow for about fifty yards until I reached the next street over. More condos and half a dozen parking spots lined the road.

  I walked back the way I’d come, scanning the ground, but if there was any evidence it had long been snowed over. I stood peering at the beige residence where two women had spent their last night alive. W
as this the spot the killer waited out his victims? Not likely—it would have been impossible to cross the street under the streetlamps without being noticed. More likely, he hid in a shadowy spot near the house where he could sneak up from behind. I moved to a thick trunk near the steps to Galanis’s door. From here the murderer could have attacked, striking from behind with a club. Then with a single motion he could have hefted the body over his shoulder and run into the dark trees, then fifty yards to his truck.

  Back in the trees, I walked again to the next street. I knocked on ten doors and spoke with six people. None recalled seeing a dark Ford Ranger in the neighborhood. I came back to Galanis’s condo and knocked on doors up and down the street with the same result.

  Snowflakes began floating down from the white sky. I stared out beyond at Lake Tahoe. Five miles away there was a clearing in the clouds and the north section of the lake was glittery with sunshine. The view was unimpeded and almost as majestic as the vista from atop the ski resort. An expensive view, no doubt. For Galanis, likely one financed with dirty money. Whether that had any bearing on the murders, I didn’t know.

  I went back to Galanis’s unit and considered ringing his doorbell. The temptation was almost overwhelming, but I knew it would be a bad move. If he had something to hide, he certainly wouldn’t cooperate. And if he had nothing to conceal, he still wouldn’t tell me much because he wouldn’t want me interfering with his force’s efforts—or worse, embarrassing him by solving the case before his detectives. The involvement of a private investigator meant nothing but trouble for Galanis. Best I lay low for the time being.

  Before heading to my truck, I paced around in the adjacent trees for some minutes. My collar turned up against the light snowfall, I dug my hands deep in my coat pockets and walked down to the entrance of the complex and back again. I had almost entirely dismissed the potential the cab driver was involved, which meant someone must have invested quite a bit of energy in following Galanis. The killer probably was at the club where Galanis met Valerie. He—I assumed the killer must be male—could also have been at Pistol Pete’s when Galanis hooked up with Terry. From those locations, the killer would have tailed Galanis to his home and waited in the shadows for the right moment to pounce.