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

by Dave Stanton

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I’ve seen murders motivated by sexual jealousy or resentment. It’s something you may consider. The fact the women weren’t raped or tortured suggests the motive is not based on hatred of women, which is quite common, but instead on something else.

  “Like what?”

  He checked his watch. “Hatred,” he said, “of the policeman.”

  “I see.”

  “I do beg your pardon, but my time is tight. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Best of luck to you,” he said. He nodded curtly and strode up the stairs toward the exit.

  I followed him out of the building into the cold white of the afternoon. He stepped briskly away and I jogged to where I’d parked. I wheeled out of the parking lot and back to the freeway, thankful it was only snowing in light flurries. In perfect driving conditions, I could make it down 395 through Carson City and over Spooner Pass to South Lake Tahoe in less than an hour. Factor in today’s weather, it might take more like ninety minutes. It was already almost two thirty. I wouldn’t be able to visit Mount Rose Ski Resort today. It was more important to make my four o’clock appointment with Brent Corrigan at the South Lake Resort.

  But I was already mentally leapfrogging the angle on the ski patrollers. Yes, it was plausible a ski patroller was the murderer. Yes, it was worth following up on. But the fact that I’d not yet spoken with Galanis was a problem. And the blame for it rested squarely on my shoulders. I needed to question Galanis, and I needed to do so without delay.

  A few minutes outside Reno, the landscape turned stark. The straight highway split empty flatlands glazed with snow and to the east the pastures stretched for miles until a hillside rose and merged with the iron sky. Beyond the hills lay five hundred miles of high desert terrain and the labyrinth of peaks and ranges that made Nevada the most mountainous state in the U.S. The land between here and the Great Salt Lake is sparsely populated, and some of the rural towns looked much like they had in the 1950s. Some are ghost towns, gray and decaying, abandoned after the silver mines went bust. Places where if you listen closely late at night, you might hear the tinny rattle of an old time piano, the clink of whiskey glasses, and the lost voices of bearded men whose luck had run out.

  Spooner Pass was slick with ice and slush and it took half an hour to make the twelve miles over the barren hills to Lake Tahoe. Then I got on the gas again and made time around the lake until I hit the light at Stateline right before the casinos. The snow was falling in heavy, wet flakes, and the neon casino lights flashed and beckoned through the haze.

  At four o’clock I parked at the ski resort, snow melting off my hood, and hiked into the lodge. I ran my hand through my wet hair and went down a flight of stairs to an area where rubber mats lined the floors. I asked the first person I saw with a nametag to direct me to Brent Corrigan. A minute later, I stood in his small office.

  I immediately recognized Corrigan as the patroller I’d seen on the slopes when I skied Friday. He had a head thick with white hair and full cheeks and friendly eyes. About fifty-five years old. His body thickening with middle age, but still powerful. A man used to working with his hands, not a desk jockey.

  “Mr. Corrigan, Dan Reno.”

  “Yes, have a seat.” He grimaced at some paperwork and pushed it aside. “You wanted to talk about the poor girl found out there.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, how can I help you?”

  “I have a theory, Mr. Corrigan. I think a ski patroller may have killed Valerie Horvachek and dumped her body.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why would you think that?”

  “Her body was moved into the woods either by snowmobile or gurney. Ski patrollers are trained on both.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but…is that your only theory? I mean, do you have any other clues?” Doubt and a hint of sympathy etched his face.

  “Yes, I do. I think the killer might have been driving an older model Ford Ranger. Do any of your patrollers drive one?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but I can definitely get you an answer to that.”

  “Thank you, I’d appreciate it. How many patrollers work here?”

  “We have eighteen total, including me.”

  “Can you get me their names and addresses?”

  “Ahh. For that, you’d probably have to go through HR.”

  “You have the information, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “But we’re owned by a big resort conglomerate. Employee information is confidential, and I’d probably lose my job for sharing it. The person you should talk to is Haley Adams in Personnel.”

  “I see. I’ll do that. Mr. Corrigan, have the police spoken to you yet?”

  “No, no one’s contacted me but you.”

  “Hmm.” I sat and stared at Brent Corrigan. He had a caring, fatherly aura about him, and vaguely reminded me of some character I’d seen on a TV sitcom years ago.

  “Here’s a question for you,” I said. “Are all your rescue gurneys accounted for?”

  “Well, yes. None are missing, that I know of.”

  “If one was missing, would you know?”

  He paused. “Our patrollers sign an equipment sheet after every shift, accounting for all our valuable gear, including sleds, drills, communications gear, etcetera.”

  “Is it possible a gurney’s missing?”

  “I suppose it is. I’d have to double-check.”

  “That would be very helpful.”

  His lip turned downward, and I imagined he was thinking that not only was the chore a pain in the ass, but if a sled was missing, it might bode poorly for him.

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” I said. “We think the murderer has killed two women, and might kill again.”

  He met my eyes. “I have a twenty-one year old daughter myself. I’ll cooperate in any way I can.”

  “Thanks.” I laid a manila folder on his desk and opened it. “Can you tell me if you recognize any of these men?”

  He studied the pictures of the men at Pistol Pete’s carefully. After a minute, he shook his head and passed the file back to me.

  “None of these guys work for you, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just hoping I’d get lucky.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow after I check on our gurneys.”

  “Good deal.” I stood to leave, then stopped. “One more question, Mr. Corrigan. Can you tell me where you were Christmas Eve?”

  The white-haired patroller looked perplexed for a second, then he smiled. “Of course. My family from Minnesota came to visit. Twelve all told. We had dinner then went to Midnight mass at Our Lady of the Lake.”

  “Okay. Thanks again for your time.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  We shook hands, and I left his office and went up the stairs and down a hallway to the office of Haley Adams, the woman I’d met previously. But her office was locked, and when I asked someone, they said she had just left.

  I yawned and pressed my palms to my eyes, which felt bloodshot. I spotted a wood bench and was tempted to sit and close my eyes, just for a minute. Instead, I went to the bar and asked for a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll have to brew a new pot,” the bartender said.

  “Shit. Don’t you have any old stuff?”

  He walked over to a percolator tucked in a corner and held up the pot. “Been here since morning. Probably taste like tar.”

  “Perfect. Pour it.”

  The coffee was thick and acidy. I sat hunched over the cup and the stale brew coated my throat like a bitter syrup. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the snow was falling and the slopes were deserted. The only other people in the bar—a group sitting near the windows—gathered their coats and gloves and walked out, their ski boots clunking against the wooden floorboards.

  The bartender departed on some errand and left me alone in the cavernous room. I looked up at a huge
stuffed California golden bear standing on a platform built over the bar. Its mouth was set in a roar, the yellowed fangs exposed. It was hard to say whether the bear was roaring its approval or unhappiness at being displayed at the bar. It was probably pissed, I decided. It certainly didn’t look cooperative, unlike most of the folks I’d interviewed in the last two days. For the most part, they’d all been friendly and willing to answer my questions. In my experience, that’s not always a good thing. People cooperate when they have nothing to hide, but that also means they likely don’t know much of value. Better to find those who evade questions, or who are outright antagonistic. Then you know you’re getting somewhere.

  The ski resort employees, the snowboarders, the taxi driver, they all seemed perfectly willing to cooperate. I didn’t see any sign they were withholding information, and that’s something I’m pretty good at recognizing. Tells, they call it in poker—the rubbing of the face, an involuntary wince, a glance askew, the conversational hesitations while a story is concocted. It’s not hard to spot after a while.

  I looked up at the bear again. Hell, maybe it wasn’t pissed, but instead happy to overlook the daily revelry. Maybe in death, animals or people can take on a meaning altogether different from that of their lives. Just like the two women who died after sleeping with Nick Galanis.

  I tipped the mug back and swallowed a mouthful of grounds. Then I went out to my truck and drove back over the state border and up the winding road to the upscale condominium complex where Galanis lived.

  13

  It was twilight when I pulled up to Galanis’s house. A pair of pickups with snowplows attached were working the area, and the streets were more wet than icy. Yellow street lanterns were lit in front of every residence, creating a quaint, welcoming effect. The half-dozen guest parking spots down the street were taken, so I parked right in front of Galanis’s address, near a no-parking sign.

  I rang the bell and waited on the step. After a minute, I rang again. It was possible he was still at work, and I considered leaving and coming back later in the evening. But then the door opened.

  Galanis wore running shoes and black sweat pants with stripes down the sides. His tank top showed arms and shoulders more muscular than I’d imagined. He blinked when he saw me, then smiled. His curly black hair was flawless.

  “Hey, Dan Reno. What’s happening?”

  “It’s Reno, Captain. I’d like to share with you some things I’ve learned, some ideas I have on the murder cases.”

  “You do, huh?” His smile was casual, but maybe a little forced. He was freshly shaven and there was an amused glint in his eye that looked practiced. “I heard you were hired by Valerie’s father.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t catch me at the best time. I usually work out before dinner. But I’ve got a few minutes, I guess. Come on in.”

  I stepped out of the wet light into a tiled foyer. “You’ll have to forgive me, I have company,” he said, as I followed him down a short hall to a room with a fire crackling in a marble fireplace. The flames reflected off a large picture window stretching to the top of the peaked ceiling. Outside the window was a view of a forested valley that dipped then rose into a distant ridgeline. A band of mist hovered low in the valley, the vaporous tendrils threaded through the pines like ghostly fingers.

  But that wasn’t the only scenery in Galanis’s home. On a furry white rug in the center of the room was an easy chair, and sitting in it was a woman in a crème-colored robe. Her hair was platinum blond and silky straight and the bangs were cut in a line low over her eyebrows. One of her legs was hiked up on the chair’s arm, revealing a bare foot with silver nails, a shapely calf, and the smooth flesh of her inner thigh. The skin was bronze and glowed with an inviting sheen.

  She turned her head from the television. With the motion the satin material opened from her neck and slid aside, revealing the curve of her bare breast just shy of the nipple.

  “Hello,” she said. She had large green eyes and amazingly full lips. She took me in for a second then lazily returned to the television and continued surfing the channels, gold bracelets dangling from her wrist as she pointed the remote control.

  “Marla, I’ve got some business,” Galanis said. She nodded briefly, her profile almost cartoon-like in its perfection. I followed him away, past a kitchen and to a room with a desk, a stationary bike, and a row of dumbbells on a rubber mat. There was only one chair, so we both stood.

  “Well?” he said.

  I squelched an urge to ask him about the young lady in his living room. Instead, I said, “Have you ever been married?”

  He nodded. “About twenty years ago. Lasted a little over two years. She went on to date an NFL running back. Can you believe that? Guy played for the Saints, I think.”

  “Did you have any children?”

  “No,” he chortled. “We avoided that, thankfully. Why does it matter?” His voice was easygoing and conversational, but the affable expression on his face receded some.

  “I don’t know that it does. I talked to a headshrink who asked the question. He theorized the murders might be part of some inner-family jealously.”

  Galanis tilted his head and one eyebrow dipped. “Really, a headshrink?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let me ask you a question or two, Dan. Take a seat.” He moved aside and turned the swivel-back chair to face me.

  “Okay,” I said. I stepped past him and sat, my hands resting on my knees.

  “Have you identified any suspects?” Galanis stood over me. His shirt clung to his torso, his midsection convex and his chest cut at a sharp angle.

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “Have you identified any specific motive?”

  “No, nothing definite.”

  “Where are you in your investigation, then?”

  I looked up at Galanis. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was pointless. I had every intention of playing it straight with him. I had nothing to lose in doing so, and if I was lucky, he might share something of value in return.

  “I burned a bunch of calories looking at two biker gangs,” I said. “The Blood Bastards and the War Dogs. Also, a Mexican named Mike Zayas. Runs a strip club in Sacramento, and has cartel connections. He supplies drugs to the Blood Bastards.”

  Galanis’s face betrayed nothing. If he was involved with either gang, or even knew they existed, nothing in his manner let on. But I believed Galanis to be a cold-hearted son of a bitch, and I didn’t expect him to react, even if he was up to his eyeballs in dirty money from the Blood Bastards.

  “But the biker angle fizzled out,” I continued. “I don’t think either gang was involved in the murders. I also don’t think drugs had anything to do with it.”

  “What else?”

  “The cab driver that showed up here on New Year’s claims to have seen a Ford Ranger nearby. It’s possible it was the killer’s vehicle.”

  “Go on.”

  “Whoever dumped Valerie’s body had to be skilled enough to transport her body out to that location at night. I’m working on putting together a list of every ski patroller in the Tahoe area. Then see if one drives a Ford Ranger.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I also compiled pictures of a dozen men who were at Pistol Pete’s, near where you met Terry Molina New Year’s Eve. My theory is one of the men might have been tailing you.”

  “How did you get the pictures?”

  “I asked politely.”

  An impatient flicker crossed Galanis’s face. “Have you got anywhere with the pictures?”

  “Nope. But I brought you a set.” I handed him the folder I’d been holding.

  Galanis gave the pages a cursory glance, then set them on his desk.

  “Recognize anyone?” I asked.

  “No.” He looked at his watch.

  “Captain, I think the murderer is someone you know. Either a man you’ve arrested, or maybe someone you’ve injured in your past.”
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br />   “Injured?”

  “Yeah. As in grievously offended.”

  “Grievously offended.” Galanis spoke slowly, as if deeply contemplating the meaning of the words. “What do you think a cop’s life is, a popularity contest?”

  “I’m not talking about a cop’s life.”

  “What you talking about, then?” A bubble of white spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Your personal life. I bet you’ve bedded down hundreds of women, right? Maybe even had kids you don’t know about.”

  “Jesus Christ. So what if I have?”

  “Maybe there’s someone out there, someone closer to you than you think, someone with a lot of resentment.”

  Galanis rolled his eyes, but it was calculated, and I didn’t buy it. “I bet you could make a list of ten people, and one would be the killer,” I said, standing. “I think you know who murdered those girls, detective. Whoever it is definitely knows you.”

  Galanis’s body tensed, and he looked away, his eyes shrunken and gleaming darkly, his cavalier aura gone and replaced by something hard and callous and self-serving. In that instant I sensed I was glimpsing the real man beneath the movie star looks, an inner being that was ugly and cold and kept tucked away behind a glossy exterior. For a moment I thought he might take a swing at me. Then his stance relaxed, and he smiled again.

  “Those are interesting ideas you have, Reno. I’ll definitely do some, uh, soul searching. Now like I said, I have things to do.” He opened the door and held it for me.

  “Have your detectives identified any suspects?” I asked.

  “We expect an arrest soon. So I wouldn’t go get yourself too wrapped around the axle with your theories.”

  “I’ll try not to.” I walked out of the room and he led me to the front door, taking a different route than when I’d arrived.

  “The girl in your living room,” I said, as we stood in his foyer. “I’d say she’s beautiful, but that doesn’t quite do it.”

  “Maybe stunning is the word you’re looking for.”

  “You using her as bait?”

  “Not her.” His expression was one of mock pain.