by Dave Stanton
I looked through the trees at the condos lining the street. There was another option I hadn’t considered. A neighbor could have been staking out Galanis’s place. It was possible the killer lived on this street. The thought was worth looking into.
Neighbor or otherwise, the killings required not only stealth and forethought, but also a certain bravado. To abduct two women in front of a police officer’s home made a statement of sorts, perhaps a mocking affront to the police department. But strangling two women who had just been seduced by Douglas County’s top cop sent a message beyond taunting. What that message was, I didn’t know.
I drove home and ran Nick Galanis’s name through my computer and learned he’d purchased his condo two years ago for $750,000. Unless he’d made a large down payment, the mortgage payment would be at least $3500, quite a stretch for his income level. I doubted he’d gotten an inheritance, because his parents were still alive.
By noon I’d completed my online research on Galanis. Besides the data on his home and his parents, there wasn’t much. I watched Candi finish a portion of the landscape she was painting, then she put away her brushes and we drove out to Zeke’s. When we arrived, Zak Pappas came out from the kitchen and greeted us effusively. We sat at the table next to the front window, and Zak brought us his new addition to the menu, spinach salad with hot bacon dressing and split barbecued prawns.
“What do you think?” he said. He wore a white chef’s hat and a red apron stretched across his rotund torso.
“Damn decent, Zak.”
“It’s a wonderful dish,” Candi added. Zak beamed and returned to the kitchen.
We ate while looking out the window. The snowfall had increased, the flakes heavier now but still floating down at a languid pace. In the windless calm, the snow coated the parking lot and built gently on top of the cars. The huge pine out front stood immersed and unmoving, like a stoic guardian.
We didn’t speak for a while. I sat touching Candi’s fingers, lost in the serenity of the moment. Then I heard a raised voice at the bar. It was only a man joking with his friend, but I found myself staring through him at the stool where Jake Massie had sat. My stomach tightened, and the muscles in my back and shoulders flexed. I felt my lips pulling back from my teeth, and I widened my eyes and exhaled.
“Dan?” Candi said.
“Yes?”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing, babe.”
“Maybe you should have a beer or two. It is the weekend.”
“That’s all right. I’ll wait until tonight.” I looked at her and she was studying me, her face compassionate and concerned, and maybe a little angry. I reached out and gave her arm a squeeze.
“No worries, doll. I have some work to do this afternoon.”
She got up and went to the ladies room, her fingers drifting over my neck. I returned my eyes to the front window and watched an SUV back out of a parking spot, its tires slipping and spitting snow. Maybe the weather was thwarting Massie’s plans to pay me another visit. Or maybe he was consumed with other priorities. I hoped that was the case, but hope is not much of a strategy, as my old man used to say.
Before heading home we stopped to pick up groceries and I bought Candi a new pair of gloves at a sporting goods store. When we got home I tried to watch TV, then gave up and lifted some weights and cleaned the kitchen. At half past three, I went to my computer and searched for a phone number or address for Douglas County detective Greg McMann. Not finding a thing, I called the cell number I had for the recently transplanted cop from Texas, Bill Worley. He picked after three rings.
“Hi Bill, it’s Dan Reno.”
“Howdy, Dan. What can I do for you?”
“Thought I’d see if you’d like to compare notes on the murder cases.”
“Well, that’s neighborly of you, but there’s not much I can share, being the cases are open and all.”
“Yeah, I know. But we’re both working toward the same goal, so I thought maybe we could help each other out. For the common good, you understand.”
He chuckled. “For a PI, you’re quite the diplomat.”
“I try.”
“Tell you what. You want to share what you know, I’ll be happy to offer my opinion.”
“All right. I found out the cocaine in Valerie’s purse was fronted to her by a biker named Roscoe, rides with the Blood Bastards out of Sac.”
“He did her wrong. That stuff was about eighty percent baby laxative.”
“My guess is she cut it. Roscoe thinks a rival biker gang, the War Dogs, killed her for the drugs and to send a message to the Blood Bastards.”
“Makes no sense. She still had the coke.”
“Yeah, I know. You think bikers have anything to do with this?”
“They’re not among our primary suspects.”
“Who is?” I asked.
“We’re profiling sex offenders who might carry a grudge against Nick Galanis.”
“Sex offenders? Neither woman was raped, right?”
“True. But we think there’s likely some underlying sexual deviance at play.”
“Like, someone gets off on killing blondes seduced by cops?”
Worley cleared his throat. “By Galanis in particular.”
“What does Galanis think of that theory?”
“He’s been cooperative, but I don’t think he has anymore insight than we do.”
“How do we know he didn’t kill the girls?”
“We don’t for sure. But other than the fact he was the last one to see them alive that we know of, there’s no evidence he was involved in the murders. There’s also no motivation we can come up with. And we don’t think he could have taken that body up into the mountains. He claims he’s only ridden a snowmobile a couple of times, and he ain’t much of a skier.”
“Maybe he had a partner.”
“Sure, we thought of that. But who? And why?”
“Have you interviewed Galanis’s neighbors?” I asked.
“We talked to everyone in his complex. Didn’t come up with a single suspect.”
“All right. What’s his partner, Greg McMann, have to say?”
“Not much, besides, Uno mas cerveza, por favor.”
“Huh?”
“McMann is a twelve-stepper. Just fell off the wagon hard, from what I hear.”
“Do you have a number for him?”
“Not that I can give you. But you want to find him, try Hannigan’s over in Zephyr Cove.”
• • •
Five miles into Nevada, I stopped at Zephyr Cove’s single traffic light. To my left, the rugged eastern shoreline of the lake was obscured in a white fog. I turned right into a shopping center that had recently been built out, and was now the town’s predominant landmark. Realtor’s and doctor’s offices shared the development with a large grocery store, art galleries, numerous restaurants, and an Irish pub I was fairly certain had been there longer than any of the other businesses.
I’ve known plenty of bar owners, all drunks or reformed alcoholics. Some have done quite well with their bars, but I don’t think it’s because they’re exceptional business people. It doesn’t take much entrepreneurial flair or business acumen to run a successful bar. What is does take is a drinker’s sense of what fellow drinkers want. A good bar is where you go to blot out the drudgery and demands of a harsh world, to feel the thrill of an early buzz among those there for the same reason, and to immerse yourself in dark, familiar confines, where responsibilities are forgotten and the party is an ongoing event. Good bars never change, because drunks don’t like change.
Hannigan’s was similar to many I used to frequent. The décor was timeless, dark mahogany, red carpet, the pool table an island of green light. At first glance the place seemed upscale; the stools were newly covered in burgundy leather and gold buttons, and the bar top looked freshly lacquered. But the carpet was worn and stained, and behind the odor of cigarette smoke, I caught a faint whiff of vomit.
At the bar sat
a dozen people, mostly men. They wore winter boots and wool shirts, and their jackets hung on coat racks near the front door. I walked the length of the bar, used the men’s room, and came back to where three men sat at the back corner of the bar near the pool table. They were cops. There was nothing overt in their outward appearance that made this obvious, other than an invisible barrier between them and the rest of the patrons, as if they were shunned or feared.
I recognized Greg McMann immediately. Sitting between the other two, he looked too short to be a cop. He had a squat physique, thick neck, stubby arms, barrel chest. His face was ruddy and his features small and his short hair was almost the same color as his skin.
I hung back in the shadows for a moment. The trick would be getting McMann alone.
“Gentlemen,” I said, stepping forward. “Can I buy you a round?”
The three men turned and regarded me. If I’d hoped for smiles, they didn’t come.
“Who’s buying?” said the youngest, an unshaven man with a nose like a hawk.
“Dan Reno.” They stared back blankly. Some local cops recognized my name, but if these guys did, they weren’t letting on.
“What’s the occasion?” said the other fellow, lanky, grizzled, in his fifties.
“Wanted to introduce myself. I’m a private investigator out of South Lake.”
They eyed me, their faces suspicious and unwelcoming. I waved at the bartender and tossed a couple twenties on the bar. “Gimme a shot of CC and a Bud, and a round here,” I said. I stood behind the cops and waited for the drinks.
McMann drained the last of his highball and turned on his seat.
“You’re buddies with Gibbons, the guy that was with Terry Molina, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Let me guess—you want to talk about the murders.”
I watched the bartender make the drinks. “I’ve got a few opinions I’d like to run by you,” I said. “You want to shoot a game of pool?”
McMann didn’t answer, and I stood there awkwardly until the drinks arrived.
“Here’s to you, men,” I said, and tossed back my whiskey. They nodded and drank, then McMann climbed off his stool and picked a pool cue from the rack on the wall. I plugged quarters into the table’s coin mechanism and the balls clunked and rolled to a stop. McMann chalked a cue while I racked the balls.
A lit cigarette in his mouth, the stubby cop leaned over the table and lined up the break, then slammed the cue ball with such force that one of the balls bounced off the table. I caught it and set it back on the felt.
“Nice break,” I said.
McMann nodded and proceeded to run the table until missing a difficult bank shot on the eight ball.
“Good thing we’re not playing for money,” I said. I took a shot and missed.
He deftly cut the eight ball into a side pocket. I plugged in more coins and re-racked. After a break that threatened to rattle the neon beer lights off the walls, he took a slug from his drink and said, “You’ve been looking into the murders?”
“I’ve been hired by Valerie Horvachek’s father.”
He grunted and finessed a ball into a corner pocket. “What have you found out?”
“The most solid thing is the killer may have been driving a Ford Ranger pickup.”
McMann paused and stubbed out his cigarette. “Really. Where’d you hear that?”
“The cab driver.”
He grunted again and starred at the table.
“I originally thought bikers and drugs were involved. I’m not so sure anymore,” I offered.
“The Horvachek girl may have known some bikers, but we don’t think Terry Molina did,” he said. “Have you heard different?”
“No. How about Nick Galanis? Have you known him long?”
“A couple years.” McMann missed a shot and I walked around the table and sunk an easy ball.
“I have a theory,” I said. “Whoever killed the girls is motivated by something involving Galanis. Like maybe a pissed off husband of a woman he seduced. Or, even a jealous woman could be the killer.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” McMann said. He took a long pull from his highball and finished it. I caught his eyes and for the first time noticed a drunken sheen. He took aim and banked in a tough shot.
“Ever play professionally?” I asked.
“Semi-pro, back in Chicago. Why would a pissed husband go after Galanis’s floozies? They hold a grudge, they’d go after Galanis himself.”
“Right.”
“Besides, neither of the victims was married. Or even had a committed relationship. Right?”
“True,” I said. McMann missed a shot, and I studied the table then looked up at him. “Galanis seems to be one hell of a ladies man.”
“So?”
“Has he ever had problems with any of his women?”
McMann smiled, his teeth small in his mouth. “He gets more ass than a toilet seat. But I’ve never seen him have a problem. He could be bangin’ three broads in the same week, and they’re all callin’ and beggin’ for more and wantin’ to be his girlfriend. It would drive any normal guy nuts. But to him it’s nothin’. It’s a skill he has.”
“I can barely manage one woman at a time.”
“Same here.”
“How does he do it?”
He lit another cigarette, and I saw the bartender and pointed at McMann’s empty glass.
“You think it would catch up with him eventually,” I said.
McMann shook his head. “Let me tell you a story, maybe shed some light on this. I knew a guy back when I was in high school. Horniest guy I ever met, walked around with a hard-on so bad he had to carry his books in front of his crotch. We had a lot of hot girls at school back then, and plenty of guys were getting laid, but not this guy. He tried, like hell he tried. But the desperation was like a stink on him, and he flubbed his words and no girls would have anything to do with him. And he even tried with the ugly girls and the fat chicks, and not even those would have him.”
I went to the bar and got McMann his cocktail. “Thanks,” he said. “So the guy gets out of high school still a virgin, and by this time he’s probably set some kind of record for jackin’ off. Then I lose touch with him for a year or two, and when I see him again he’s goin’ to college, and he’s like a new man. Changed his hair, dressin’ stylish, and he’s datin’ a very attractive woman. Clearly he’s had a transformation of some sort. Good for him, right? So we’re havin’ some drinks and he tells me, yeah, he ain’t the same awkward doofus he used to be, and he’s been humpin’ the hell out many different pieces of tail.”
“Okay.”
“So then he tells me, the best thing about getting laid is every time it’s like a big fuck you to the girls who denied him when he was younger. More so, he’s come to realize he has no sympathy for women, none whatsoever, because of all the misery they put him through. So now, it gives him great satisfaction to talk his way into a girl’s pants, and then dismiss her like she’s nothing. He tells me he don’t think he’s a bad person, but there’s a big dead spot in his heart for females.”
“Interesting story,” I said, as McMann chalked his cue and addressed his shot. “But what does it have to do with Galanis?”
“I don’t know much about Galanis’s past,” McMann said from around his cigarette, his eyes glazed behind a swirl of smoke. “But the part about the dead spot in the heart for women—he’s got that. It’s what allows him to juggle so many. He doesn’t care what they feel.”
“So he’s hurt some women. How does that figure in the murders?”
McMann hit an impossible bank shot and sunk the eight ball, but there was no satisfaction on his face.
“I don’t know,” he said.
• • •
After a dinner of chicken enchiladas and Spanish rice, Candi and I sat on the couch to watch a movie she’d rented. Smokey curled up and fell asleep in Candi’s lap, and I tried to pay attention to the movie but it didn�
��t hold my interest. Finally I admitted as much and went to my office and called Cody. Saturday night, nine o’clock, and given his bibulous tendencies I doubted he’d be home, but when he answered I didn’t hear any music or voices in the background.
“Hey, buddy. Taking it easy tonight?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m beat. I spent all day chasing down Terry’s family and friends.”
“Find anything useful?”
He sighed. “Not really. I did learn some charming tidbits, like she got divorced after her husband caught her getting it on with two guys at once. I also heard she boned just about everyone on her high school football team, and one of her ex-flings showed me a copy of a porno mag with her in a lesbian romp with a black chick.”
“Have you had yourself checked out at the STD clinic yet?”
“I also didn’t find any evidence she was dealing blow or knew any bikers.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Why?”
“I think this is all about Galanis, not drugs or bikers. I’d like to bug his house.”
Cody gave a low whistle. “You could get yourself in a heap of trouble bugging a cop’s pad, Dirt.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You could put a tail on him instead.”
“I’m thinking about it. In the meantime, I got a line on a vehicle. A dark color Ford Ranger, ’98 through 2002, was seen near Galanis’s condo complex around two A.M New Year’s Eve.”
“Same truck as the homeless guy said?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“Any chance you can talk to any of your old friends on the force, get a DMV listing for every Ford Ranger registered in Northern Cal and Nevada?”
He laughed. “You’re joking.”
“What about that lady detective you bedded down?”
“That was a few years ago. We’re not really on speaking terms anymore.”
“Maybe you could get reacquainted.”