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

by Dave Stanton

  I looked at the white stucco façade of the two-story police building. Even if I could get an audience with Galanis, he’d probably just tell me to get lost. After my visit to his condo, my status with him was somewhere between barely tolerable and complete asshole. Like he said, sometimes life ain’t a popularity contest. Regardless, Douglas PD would not formally release details on the arrest until they were good and ready. But McMann, he might be a different story. Our meeting over a couple games of pool and a few drinks had been reasonably amicable. And he didn’t seem to be a big fan of Galanis. If I caught McMann at the right moment, he might talk.

  Before I got out of my truck, I called Cody Gibbons. It went straight to voicemail. He was probably shacked up with a woman somewhere, sleeping off a hangover after a long night in a bar. Obviously he was drunk when we spoke last night, but that didn’t excuse his irreverent attitude about Massie. That was something we needed to get straightened out.

  I sidestepped patches of ice and boilerplate snow and followed a plowed section of asphalt to the main entrance. Just inside the door, they’d installed a metal detecting machine similar to the contraptions used in airports. I removed my vest, my shoes, my belt, and handed my holstered piece to a uniformed officer along with my license to carry a concealed weapon. Another uniform eyeballed the situation and came over to give me a thorough pat-down, legs spread, hands against the wall. When he was done, I sat on a metal bench to put my boots on. Then I had a quick moment of regret when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, what do ya know, it’s ‘No Problemo’ Reno.” I looked up and saw Galanis and McMann walk from a doorway into the lobby. They were both dressed in slacks and button-down shirts. Galanis’s dark clothes were freshly pressed and tailored to match his physique. McMann wore a wrinkled brown shirt that looked unwashed and fit like a burlap bag yanked over a fire hydrant. Only his belt lent some organization to his appearance and kept him from looking completely disheveled.

  “Morning, Detectives.”

  “Here to see anyone in particular?” Galanis said. He smiled with half his mouth but his expression was sharp as a razor.

  “I heard you made an arrest in the murder case.”

  His smile faded. “Word travels fast in this town.”

  “Yeah, sometimes. You sure you got the right guy?”

  “I wouldn’t have arrested him if I wasn’t.”

  “Has he confessed?” I finished tying my laces and stood.

  “Just a matter of time.”

  “I guess that means no.”

  Galanis’s eyes receded in his face. “Do you have any purpose here, Reno, other than making asinine comments?” He was no longer handsome, but instead looked like an angry rodent. He stepped closer to me, and behind him I saw McMann’s cheeks go round as he blew out his breath.

  “Not really. I’m just continuing my investigation into the murder of Valerie Horvachek.”

  “Knock yourself out then, waste all the time you want, just don’t interfere with my department’s business.”

  “The worst thing your suspect ever did was bugger a sheep, and you think he’s a killer?”

  Galanis’s nostrils flared and his lips curled as if a noxious odor had invaded his sinuses. “Here’s my advice for you, Reno. Call General Horvachek and thank him for paying you for mucking about. You can also tell him it was money wasted.” Then his facial muscles relaxed and his smile returned. “You know, something just occurred to me,” he said. “You probably contacted him after you found his daughter’s body and convinced him to hire you. Is that what you did, take advantage of a grieving parent?”

  “No, Detective,” I said. “There’re a lot of corrupt and self-serving people running around these parts, but I’m not one of them.”

  “That’s a relief,” Galanis said with a smirk. “Now, unless you’d like to spend the night in a cell, get your ass out of here.”

  I bit my lip and resisted a reply. I was already mad at myself for stupidly walking into an avoidable situation. The result was I’d learned nothing, plus I’d ruined any likelihood McMann would talk to me later. My own goddamned impatience was to blame. It would have been easy to bide my time and catch McMann alone, maybe tonight. But since I couldn’t wait, I’d blown the chance.

  I collected my firearm from the uniform, who stared at me as if I’d tracked dog shit onto the carpet. When I went out the door, my ears felt hot despite the cold. I hurried toward my truck, fighting a childish but very strong impulse to head back to the building to continue the conversation. Preoccupied with the thought and not paying attention, I was almost at my truck when I stepped onto a strip of black ice and my feet went out from under me. My arms wind-milled, and I fell hard on my back. Laughter erupted from the front of the building, and I turned and saw Galanis, McMann, and a uniformed cop standing at the curb watching me, grins splitting their faces.

  • • •

  By the time I got home, I’d rationalized the situation the best I could. I’d been imprudent and made a mistake. My motivation may have been noble, but my execution was flawed. As a private investigator, I often had to deal with the police, or dodge them, as the circumstances dictated. Usually I did a pretty good job of it. Today was an exception. Then again, I’d never had a case where I suspected a police officer was somehow complicit in two murders.

  I sat at my desk and stared at my blank computer screen. My anger over being treated as a punch line by Galanis and his lackeys was still boiling in my gut. If Galanis was a civilian we would have come to blows, and he’d probably end up hospitalized. The thought provided little solace. Galanis was a cop, and I couldn’t touch him.

  After a minute I got up and went to where I kept a bottle of bourbon on my kitchen counter. I filled a shot glass and contemplated the amber liquid. Eighty-proof, straight. Just what I needed to take the edge off my recriminations. I rolled the glass between my thumb and forefinger. In no time at all I could be drunk, and my concerns about the Valerie Horvachek case would become scattered and forgotten. And then I might load my shotgun and pick up a half-rack of road beers and head west over Echo Pass and off the mountain down into San Joaquin Valley. In less than three hours, I’d be in a little known farm town where a decrepit house flanked by an aluminum-sided shack sat a quarter-mile off the road. After that, it was anyone’s guess.

  The scene played itself out in my mind. My truck power-sliding to a stop in front of Massie’s dilapidated shit hole. The door to the house flying open, the doorjamb splintered where my boot heel slammed into it like a battering ram. Bodies moving in a blur, yells and screams, the roar of my shotgun, breaking glass, blood on the walls, men running, more shots fired, then Massie wounded and pleading before I ended his life in a spray of gristle, bone, and red splatter.

  I carefully poured the whiskey back into the bottle. The scene was from a different time in my life. I would not revisit it. Not in a drunken rage, and not today.

  Instead, I went back to my computer and ran a search on Tim Elkind, the man Galanis had arrested. Among other things, his public record listed numerous misdemeanors, a personal bankruptcy, addresses past and present, and the name of his ex-wife. I ran a search on her and found a phone number in Carson City. Her name was Dolly. I punched the number into my cell.

  “Who is it and what do you want?” The voice was female but had a hoarse, deep tenor that could have mistaken for a man’s.

  “Dan Reno, investigations. May I speak with Dolly, please?”

  “You got her.”

  “I’d like to ask you a couple questions about your ex-husband.”

  “We’re divorced.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s a dumbshit and a pervert. What did he do this time? Rip off a candy bar?” She brayed loudly, greatly amused by her remark.

  “Actually, he’s been accused of murder.”

  She laughed even harder. “That
chickenshit? He’s scared of his own shadow.”

  “They say he strangled two women.”

  She brayed again. “If you said he’d been busted for sticking his pecker in a pig, I’d believe you,” she said between hoots and trying to catch her breath. “But Timmy ain’t no killer.”

  “Did he ever do much skiing?”

  “Skiing? Hell, no. He cain’t hardly walk and chew gum at the same time.” She launched a laugh so loud I held the phone away from my ear. “Harvey!” she yelled. “Bring that bottle over here, goddamn you!”

  “How about snowmobiling?”

  “He’s drove plenty a’ tractors, but he ain’t ever rid a snowmobile I know of.”

  “I see. Well, thanks for your time.”

  “You got it.” She started yelling for the bottle again, and hung up.

  I spent the next hour updating the case report for General Horvachek. When it was finished, I looked it over from beginning to end. It was ten single-spaced pages packed with names, dates, times, interviews, and my own opinions. The report concluded with the arrest of Tim Elkind and a recounting of the conversation I’d just had with his ex-wife. I was ready to e-mail it to the General, but instead I called him.

  “Good morning, Reno.” His voice sounded old and resigned. It didn’t sound like he was having a good morning.

  “An arrest was made a few hours ago by Douglas County PD, General. They think they’ve found the man who murdered your daughter and the other woman.”

  “What? No one from Douglas County called me.”

  “I’m calling you. I can’t speak for them.”

  “Was Nick Galanis involved in this?”

  “My understanding is he was the arresting officer.”

  The general paused, then said, “Who is the suspect?”

  “His name is Tim Elkind.”

  “Was he one of your suspects?”

  “Yes and no. He was at Pistol Pete’s the night Terry Molina was murdered. Other than that, I don’t think he fits the profile. I think he was arrested based on circumstantial evidence.”

  “That’s what you think, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, since they didn’t call me with this news, it looks like I’ll have to call them.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear from you. General, I would typically conclude an investigation after an arrest is made. But I’d like to continue looking into this. I’m willing to do it on my own time.”

  He grunted. “Please continue until I say otherwise. I’ll pay you.”

  “As you see fit. I have a status report I’m ready to e-mail. You should probably read it before you contact either Douglas County or South Lake PD.”

  “I’ll do that. Send it now.”

  • • •

  At noon I drove over to the community college and spent a few minutes casing the area before walking to Candi’s classroom. Hoping I wasn’t interrupting a class in session, I opened the door and peaked inside. There were no students, only Candi at her desk.

  “Hey there,” I said. She held a pair of sketches in each hand, seemingly absorbed in comparing the two.

  “Oh, hi. I’ve got a few pretty talented students in this class. Check these out.”

  I walked over and saw the drawings were of a naked woman on horseback, galloping through a meadow. The artist had captured a certain grace and wanton desire.

  “They’re very good,” I said. I looked around the classroom, where clay sculptures sat on tabletops and easels held paintings in progress.

  “Art is a funny thing. What an artist creates exposes their heart. What kind of person do you think made these sketches?”

  “Uh, a girl?”

  “Yes, but you might be surprised if you met her. She’s the most tiny, timid thing, a little stick figure. What do you see in these sketches?”

  “Something sensuous and carefree.”

  “Exactly,” Candi said, her green eyes staring into mine. “That’s what’s in her heart. The drawings are a form of release.”

  I turned to a nearby lump of clay that vaguely resembled a dog. “What’s this one mean?”

  Candi made a face. “Not everyone has the knack is what it means. Where are you taking me for lunch?”

  “Wherever you like,” I said, and when I turned I saw a painting of a mountain landscape. A snowy glade and a distant granite ridge were depicted on a canvas about two feet square. The quality of the artwork was fair at best, certainly far from professional grade. But the perspective and depth of the scene were well done.

  Candi took off her smock and grabbed her purse. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Wait a sec.” I stared at the painting.

  “What’s so interesting?”

  I tilted my head to one side and the other. Then I walked closer and reached out with my finger and traced the border of the glade.

  “I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a painting of the snow field where I found Valerie’s body.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I swear, it was right here.” I pointed at the bottom of the canvas. “And I tied my bandana to this tree here.”

  We both stood staring at the painting. “And this is where her body lay,” I said.

  “Well, Marty probably skied there, just like you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” And then I saw a tube of pink oil paint resting on a pallet, along with green and white tubes. Pink, just like Valerie’s purse, hanging from the tree.

  “Marty who?”

  “Marty Nilsson. A quiet student, for the most part.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “About six feet. Big arms, like a body builder. He’s also got something weird with his lip. Almost like a deformity, but maybe it’s just a scar.”

  “What color skin and hair?”

  “Olive complexion, some acne, and curly black hair.”

  “Nilsson is a Scandinavian name.”

  “He doesn’t look it.”

  • • •

  We went to a small café with a view of the lake. We ordered soup and sandwiches and chatted about small things. I forced myself to push away all thoughts of the murder case and Jake Massie. I wanted to enjoy the normalcy of the moment. Just a quiet lunch in an inconspicuous place. I looked at Candi and an unexpected and powerful sense of calm came over me. She was my lover and friend, our relationship unencumbered with accusations and resentment, because we understood each other, and understood the world together. I relaxed for the first time in what seemed like weeks and simply enjoyed the company of the woman I loved.

  The lunch hour ended too quickly. I drove her back to the college and we walked to her classroom together.

  “Can you pull up Marty Nilsson’s home address?” I asked.

  I saw her hesitate, and I knew I had asked her to bend the rules. “Of course,” she replied. She wrote it on a piece of paper just as a pair of students came through the door. I took one last look at the painting, then told Candi I’d be back to pick her up at five.

  • • •

  I drove home and ran a trace on Marty Nilsson. Very little information came up. No surprise there. Like most twenty-one-year-olds, he’d not yet amassed much of a public footprint. Never married, no record of owning real estate, no listed arrests, liens or bankruptcies. No siblings listed either. His mother was listed, however: Anne Nilsson, last known address in Ogden, Utah. I ran a trace on her and found she’d been at the address for less than a year.

  The address Candi provided for Marty was for a street near where Highway 50 and 89 split. It took ten minutes to get through the lights on 50, then I turned onto a steep road next to the 7-11 on 89. I climbed the grade and made a sharp right into a residential area. The homes were modest. Like most Tahoe neighborhoods, the properties were either owned by locals or by real estate speculators who rented them out while waiting for the right time to sell.

  Marty Nilsson’s house was a white, wood-sided place wi
th peeling blue trim and gutters overflowing with pine needles. An orange Chevy SUV sat in the driveway, the paint faded and the oversized off-road tires cracked with age and nearly bald. The gate to the side yard was an ancient-looking chain link unit that hung crookedly on rusty hinges.

  I walked past the SUV to the concrete porch and knocked on the front door. Heavy footfalls sounded before the door opened. An unshaven man about thirty stared out at me. He wore hiking boots and work jeans and a padded vest over a blue sweatshirt.

  “Is Marty here?”

  “He ain’t around.” The man was about my size. The bristles on his face were thick and coarse, and the heavier growth circling his mouth made me think of a toilet brush. His head was covered with brown hair that grew in clumps and looked like grease-smeared paper napkins kneaded in a sweaty palm.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” I said. I tried to keep my tone friendly.

  “I ain’t his baby sitter. Who are you?”

  “Private investigations.”

  “A rent-a-cop, huh? What’s this about?” He leaned forward and there was dried mucus in the corners of his eyes.

  “The murder of two women. I want to ask Marty a few questions. You know where he is?”

  “Murder, my ass,” he scoffed, and he made a backhanded gesture, his fingers square, the nails caked with dirt. “Like I said, pal, I don’t keep track of him.”

  “Look, man, I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass. I just—”

  “You are being a pain in my ass. And I got shit to do. So take a hike.” The door began closing.

  Just before the latch clicked shut, I reared my leg back and shot my heel into the knob. The door flew open and slammed into the man. I jumped through the doorway and saw him staggering pack, blood streaming from his nose. “What the fuck?” His voice was guttural, caught somewhere between rage and confusion.