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

by Dave Stanton

  His hand fluttered to his chest. “No, no it doesn’t. Should it?”

  “You were at Pistol Pete’s New Year’s Eve. Miss Molina was there. Knee-high boots, a white top split down the center, and a big head of frizzy blond hair. Do you recall seeing her?”

  He put his finger to his chin. “That was so many, many brain cells ago. Was she the one with the giant gazoombas? Yes, I remember now, the ridiculous little twit. Loved her outfit, though. So come fuck me.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual that night? Like somebody watching her?”

  “She was really murdered?”

  “That’s right. Did you see anyone scoping her out?”

  “Like every horny hetero there! I thought she was an escort, right?”

  “What kind of car do you drive, Mr. Pinkus?”

  “Baby blue Cadillac Escalade. See it?” He pointed out the window.

  “Do you own a pickup?”

  “Not for years.”

  “Know anybody who drives a dark Ford Ranger pickup?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How about your boyfriend?”

  “Roger? He drives a Subaru Forrester.”

  I looked around the empty salon. “What time did you leave the casino?”

  “Oh my. Must have been around three. Roger and I had a bite at the coffee shop, sobered up, then he drove us home.”

  “Would he confirm that?”

  “Of course. You can call him now if you like.”

  “No, that’s all right. Thanks for your time, Mr. Pinkus. Here’s my card. Please call me if anything occurs to you about Terry Molina.”

  He held my card in his soft hand and mouthed the words to himself, then tried to take my hand again, but I was already moving toward the door.

  “I could do wonderful things with your hair. You’d be amazed!”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Good bye, Dan,” he yelled after me.

  • • •

  When I got home, I sat at my desk and called General Horvachek. His wife answered, and I waited a minute for him to come on.

  “Yes, Reno?”

  “Have you read the report I sent last night?”

  “I did.”

  “Have the police in Nevada given you an update recently?”

  “I spoke with Greg McMann last week. He didn’t provide any specifics, but said they’re making progress. He asked me to be patient.”

  “I met with South Lake Tahoe PD today,” I said. “They seem pretty optimistic.”

  “Is that right? But they’re not investigating my daughter’s death.”

  “No, but they are investigating Terry Molina’s. And we’re pretty sure the killer is the same person.”

  “What did they tell you? Have they found a motive?”

  “They think there may be a sexual predator with a grudge against Nick Galanis.”

  The line went silent, and I heard the General take a deep breath.

  “Meaning my daughter was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You have a friendly relationship with South Lake PD?”

  “Somewhat. I share information with them.”

  “Do they return the favor?”

  “As they see fit, I suppose.”

  “Do you consider them competent?”

  I paused. “The lead investigator is a man I don’t know well. He seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Send me his name and number.”

  “Okay. General, do you want me to continue my investigation?”

  “Of course. Why would you ask that?”

  “The police may solve the case before I do. And, my hours are piling up. It’s getting expensive.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about the money. Stay at it.”

  “Yes, sir. In that case, I have a request for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to get a DMV report listing every 1998 to 2002 Ford Ranger registered in California, north of Bakersfield, and Northern Nevada too. If possible, I’d like to get the information digitally, so I can manage it on my PC.”

  “You think my daughter’s killer was driving a Ford Ranger?”

  “One was seen near the crime scene. I’d also like a list of every person arrested by Nick Galanis since he worked in the Lake Tahoe area.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  “I believe you have the connections, General. But if not, I understand.”

  “You’ll find I don’t respond well to being patronized, Reno.”

  “No offense intended.”

  “I’ll work on your requests. In the meantime, redouble your efforts. Find who murdered my daughter.”

  • • •

  It was two o’clock, and the clear morning skies had given way to afternoon clouds that fell over the ridgelines like puffs of white steam. Carrying a second set of the pictures from Pistol Pete’s, I gunned my truck up the grade on Ski Run Boulevard and pulled into South Lake Tahoe’s ski resort. It was more crowded than I anticipated for a Monday, and I had to hike five minutes to the main lodge. I sidestepped skiers clumping around in unbuckled boots, their skis slung over their shoulders, and asked a woman at a coffee kiosk where the human resource office was.

  “Down the hall, past the ski shop, turn left.”

  I followed her directions and knocked on a door beneath a sign that read Business Offices. A young guy with a foreign accent opened the door and led me to a small office where a woman sat behind a desk. Her blond hair was up and she wore a white turtleneck sweater.

  “Hi, Miss…?”

  “Adams. Haley Adams, Director of Personnel. What can I do for you?” Her brown eyes were quick and attentive.

  I handed her a card. “I’m investigating the girl who was found Christmas Eve.”

  “Ahh,” she said. After a long moment she closed her mouth, and a vulnerable expression replaced the professional glean in her eyes. “We’re all still kind of freaked out by that.”

  “I have some pictures. Can you tell me if any of these men work here?” I laid my folder on her desk.

  “I’ll try, but we employ over a hundred fifty during the season, and at least half are new hires. But I’ll do my best.” She opened the folder and began studying the shots. Her brow furrowed, and she looked at some twice, but finally said, “No, I don’t recognize any of them. But that doesn’t necessarily mean none of them might work here.”

  “The man I’m looking for is likely an expert skier. Would it be possible to talk to whoever runs your ski patrol?”

  “That would be Brent Corrigan. He’s on the mountain right now. I can ask him to call you.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Something else to keep in mind,” she said. “Many of our employees work here because we provide a free season pass. We employ lots of expert skiers and boarders, whether they’re cooks, janitors, parking lot attendants, whatever.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said with a sigh. I took my folder and before leaving the lodge I stopped at the retail store, the bar, and the rental shop. I showed the pictures to five employees. They all seemed happy to help, but none recognized any of the men who’d been at Pistol Pete’s.

  I hustled back to my truck. There were twelve ski resorts around Lake Tahoe. If I hurried I could hit two more before five o’clock, when their hiring managers would likely call it quits. What were the chances the killer worked at a ski resort? Impossible to say, but at this point I needed to be out there making my own luck.

  Five miles and a dozen traffic lights through town, half of which I hit before I reached the Y and turned right onto 89. I sped past where Terry’s body was found on the beach near Camp Richardson and climbed the tight curves over Emerald Bay. The road around the lake was plowed and made narrow by walls of snow on either side. I checked my speed until I dropped down to lake level and the road straightened. Then I drove hard for thirty minutes, skipping past Homewood
, a small ski resort on the lake’s west side. When I reached Tahoe City I stopped at the red light at the junction, and ten minutes later turned onto the access road to Alpine Meadows, probably the third or fourth largest ski resort in the Tahoe region.

  At ten past four, I was able to park a stone’s throw from the ticket windows. Though considered a secondary destination for visiting skiers, Alpine Meadow’s steep terrain made it a local’s favorite. Besides the challenging runs, I was also fond of the resort for its tendency to remain open into May, and sometimes June. One year I even skied Alpine on July 4th.

  I found my way to an office marked Employee Services, where a young, bearded dude sat working on a computer.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  I introduced myself and asked him to look through the pictures.

  “Is your boss in?” I asked.

  “No, he split early.”

  “Do you know most of the people who work here?”

  “Yeah, most. I’ve been here a couple years.” He continued flipping through the pictures, then started chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “This guy works here,” he said, holding a picture of a man with a round head. “He’s our CEO.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. CEO, as in Chief Entertainment Officer. A major party animal.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Probably. He works in the rental shop. You want to talk to him, ask for Big Paul Castentino.”

  Down a flight of stairs, the rental shop looked to be winding down operations for the day. I spotted the man named Paul Castentino immediately. He was about five feet ten and easily 250, maybe closer to 300 pounds. His voice was loud and he was laughing and bantering with two other employees.

  “Hey, Paul,” I said, standing at the counter.

  “What can I do you for, my friend?” he said, jolly as Santa Claus.

  I handed him a card. “I’m investigating the murders of two women, one who was at Pistol Pete’s New Year’s Eve.”

  “Shit, I heard about that. You catch the bastard yet?”

  “If I had, I’d be skiing today, not working.”

  He laughed and reached out and patted my shoulder. “I hear you, bro.”

  “The woman had frizzy blond hair, big knockers ready to fall out of a white top. Do you remember seeing her?”

  “Oh, hell, yeah. Shit, she got murdered?”

  “Did you notice anybody paying maybe a little too much attention to her?”

  “Yeah, me,” he laughed. “She was something else. But there were plenty of other guys checking her out too.”

  “Do you remember anybody in particular?”

  “Jeez, I’d have to think about that. You mean like someone suspicious?”

  “I think the killer might have been there at the casino.”

  “Whoa.”

  The other two employees were busying themselves, but they were moving closer and obviously curious. I opened the folder on the counter. “Do you recognize any of these guys?”

  He took his time with the pictures, and I waved at the two men to join us. After a minute, Paul said, “I know a lot of people who live here, but I don’t recognize any of these guys. My guess is they’re from out of town.”

  The other two nodded in agreement.

  “What time did you leave the casino, Paul?”

  “Oh, about one. Had some folks come over to my place.”

  “Anyone here that can verify that?”

  “I can,” said one of the employees. “We partied there until past three.”

  “All right. Thanks, fellas.” I gave cards to each of them and wandered out toward the cafeteria. I spent the next thirty minutes showing the pictures to a variety of employees, until I spotted a ski patroller, an Asian man with a serious face and square shoulders.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Dan Reno, private investigations. Do you have a minute?”

  “What for?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of a young lady. Her body was found the day before Christmas in the backcountry outside of the ski resort in South Lake.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “I’d like to talk to whoever runs ski patrol here.”

  “That’s me. Ken Sato.”

  We shook hands and sat at on a bench near a bank of lockers. He looked at the pictures closely, but said none of the faces, except for Paul Castentino, looked familiar.

  “Here’s a question for you,” I said. “How many guys do you know who could transport a dead body deep into the mountains in the dead of night?”

  He thought about it for a second. “Transport how?”

  “Either a gurney or a snowmobile, unless you know of any other way.”

  He shook his head. “In the dark? Unless they were on a well marked trail, someone would have to be pretty gonzo.”

  “How about any of the ski patrollers who work here?”

  He took a moment to recognize the implication of my question, then raised his eyebrows. “All my team is proficient with a gurney or on a snowmobile. Does that make them suspects?”

  “No, but they might be able to provide clues. Could you help me arrange a time to meet with them?”

  “You could show up here at seven tomorrow morning if you want. Our first shift starts then. We also have a shift that starts at ten.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “You ever hear of anybody skiing or snowmobiling at night?” I asked.

  “For the sport of it? People do a lot of dumb things in the snow, throw themselves off jumps, ski off cliffs, you know? But you have to be able to see.”

  “Snowmobiles have lights,” I said.

  “True, but people rarely ride at night, especially off-trail. Too dangerous.”

  “You’d have to be nuts, or ballsy, or both, huh?”

  “Or maybe a member of the Carberumdum Kegger Council.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re a group of some of the most extreme skiers and borders in the world. Local guys, all professionals with sponsorships. You can see them on TV in the winter X-games. Skier-cross, snowmobile racing, first descents in the Himalayas, that’s yesterday’s news to these guys. They’re into stuff mere mortals wouldn’t even think about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Wingsuit base jumping. Speed flying. Thousand foot cliff jumps.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “Not personally. But they shouldn’t be too hard to find. Their home resort is right up the road, at Squaw Valley.”

  • • •

  In the last few years the resort developers had sunk their fangs into Squaw Valley big time. I wandered through the cobblestoned base village, past bistros, wine bars, a Starbucks, and a blur of retail stores. Once inside the main lodge I was told by an employee the ski patrollers had just gone into a meeting on avalanche safety. I went back out to the village and eventually landed at Le Chamois, an indoor-outdoor pub. A boisterous group sat drinking around a fire pit on the patio out front. The dozen or so surrounding tables were full and it was getting dark. I went inside and dodged waitresses in the crowded restaurant until I made my way upstairs to the loft bar.

  A group of young fellows in beanies sat at the bar drinking cans of Pabst beer. I took a seat at the end and after a minute the lady bartender brought me a Pabst and a shot of CC. I drank the whiskey, and when the cold beer hit my throat it tasted so good I finished it. One long pull and the can was empty, the crushed aluminum clattering on the bar top.

  The fellows next to me were discussing something that happened at a party, a friend who snowboarded off a roof. They sat on their jackets, season passes dangling from metal rings. I eavesdropped for a minute, and when one of them signaled the bartender for another beer, I said, “Let me buy you boys a round.”

  Unshaved faces with studded ears and surprised expressions turned toward me. I gave the man next to me a card.

  “I’m investigating a m
urder in South Lake. The man I’m looking for is probably an expert snowmobiler, or skier.”

  “Wow.”

  “Dude, we’re not two-plankers. We’re boarders,” said a guy with pale blue eyes and a mole on his lip.

  “Are you guys pretty good?”

  Nods and shrugs. “Austin’s fuckin’ rad,” one said, and nodded toward a small dark-haired kid at the other end.

  I cracked my fresh beer. “I’m just talking to locals, trying to get a line on a guy that would have the ability to haul a dead body deep into the backwoods at night. You guys mind taking a look at some pictures?”

  They all stared at me and nodded. I handed the file to the man on my right and the pages made their way up and down the bar. Besides Paul Castentino, whom they referred to as a drunk, they didn’t recognize any of the faces.

  A freckled youngster with curly blond locks said, “Dude, anybody decent on a snowmobile could haul a body, if they’re motivated enough.”

  “Do you know any guys really into snowmobiling?”

  “Not really,” the kid with the mole on his lip said. “You mean, like racing them?”

  “Yeah. Do you know any snowmobile racers?”

  “There’s no snowmobile racing going on in Tahoe,” the dark-haired kid said.

  “How about the Carberumdum Kegger Council? Do you know them?”

  They all turned toward the dark-haired kid.

  “I did some runs in the park with Doug Copeland earlier this year.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s aiming to set the world record for longest gap jump on a board. He boards with Shaun White sometimes.”

  “You know who Shaun White is, right?” Curly Locks said.

  “Yeah, the Olympic gold medalist. Do you know the names of the other Carberumdum members?” They all began talking at once, and I started to jot the names down, until one said, “Hell, just Google it. They’re all on the Internet.”

  “Are these guys around here?”

  “Not now,” the dark-haired kid said. “They’re doing some filming in the Chugach up in Alaska.”

  “I heard they were heading to Chamonix and then the Swiss Alps,” Curly Locks said.

  • • •

  After I left the bar, I looked for ski patrollers in the main lodge again, but they were nowhere to be found. I walked to my truck and assembled my notes on the passenger seat, then drove off into the dusk. The Truckee River flowed alongside Highway 89, the white caps breaking around snow covered boulders, the water gray and churning under the darkening skies. In Tahoe City I almost pulled into a liquor store off the highway, but kept both hands on the wheel and steered past it, then past a corner bar that used to be one of my favorites. If Candi wasn’t waiting at home, I’d probably have picked up road beers or, better yet, parked my ass in a bar and tried to cleanse my mind in a frothy haze of booze. Get drunk and wait for my scattered thoughts to blur and hope they’d reassemble in a singular construct, one clear and purposeful. And if that wasn’t forthcoming, then wait for the hangover, a numb fog in which the brain slowed and details were forgotten and sometimes complicated things became simple.