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

by Dave Stanton

  “Would you let us do our job, for Christ’s sake?”

  I dodged a three-trailer rig that swerved into my lane, and stomped the gas pedal until the truck was behind me. “All right. Has there been any sign of Jake Massie?”

  “Not a thing.”

  We hung up and I called Candi and told her I’d be home on time. She said everything was fine and she’d have dinner ready when I arrived. Then I called Cody, but like the last few times I’d called, he didn’t answer. It was past noon, but I wasn’t hungry, and I wondered if there was any chance of getting on an earlier flight. I knew there wasn’t, but I drove hard anyway, straight through the pallid landscape to the airport. I was a couple hours early, but I wanted to make damn sure I made my flight home.

  15

  When I woke the next morning, the angst that had taken hold in my chest over the past week seemed to have relaxed its grip. I felt satisfied that I’d identified the murderer, and now it was up to the police to bring him to justice. My investigation was coming to a close. How the rest played out was up to the authorities. Like Grier said, I needed to let them do their job.

  As for Jake Massie, he was one of many enemies I’d made in my career. He wasn’t the first to try to take me out. Maybe we’d meet again, or maybe he’d find easier targets for the sadistic turmoil raging in his heart. Predators are drawn to the weak, those who can’t or won’t fight back. When confronted by capable adversaries, the Massies of the world become cowards. It’s a survival instinct, pathetic but predictable.

  Whether my assessment was a false hope or not, time would tell. Regardless, I would not live my life in fear. By the same token, if I ever laid eyes on Massie again, I’d kill him without hesitation. The certainty of that fact made me feel quiet and content.

  I drove Candi to the college and came back home. The sun had come out and the sky was a deep shade of blue, and the only clouds were thin bands low over the mountains. I was in my garage lifting weights when my cell rang.

  “Sorry I’ve been off the air, Dirt,” Cody said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been on a bit of a roll.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, there. I actually ended up down in Bakersfield.”

  “The armpit of California.”

  “Tell me about it. You wake up there with a hangover, there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Keep drinking,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You make it back home yet?”

  “Yeah. Nothing but good, clean living for me now. Everything copacetic in your neck of the woods?”

  “Pretty much. No sign of Massie in town.”

  “Listen, Dirt, about the War Dogs—”

  He stopped when my cell blared. I felt my heart skip. It was the ring tone I’d programmed for Candi’s emergency alert. “Call you back,” I said, and jumped into my truck bed and unlocked my gearbox while checking the phone GPS. The alert had been sent from the college.

  I yanked on my body armor and holster and hopped behind the wheel. I hoped she’d hit the emergency button by mistake, but Candi knew her phone well and was not prone to error. All four tires spinning madly, I roared down the street and took the corner in a power slide. I turned onto 50 amid blaring horns and jammed the accelerator to the floor. A bus turned in front of me and I swerved into oncoming traffic to get around it and narrowly avoided a head-on.

  A minute later I skidded into the campus parking lot. When I got out of my truck, I heard sirens. Whether they were after me for my lunatic driving, or someone else, I didn’t know. I ran from the parking lot to Candi’s classroom. People stared at me like I was a madman. Other than that, nothing looked out of the ordinary. But when I looked in the small, rectangular window in the door, I saw a man in the room, standing next to Candi.

  The sirens were loud as I opened the door. Candi was standing at a long table in the front of the room, and the man had moved behind her. He had curly dark hair and a face bumpy with acne. His upper lip was pitched on one side, showing a bit of tooth.

  “Freeze right there,” he said, pointing a revolver at me. On the table Candi’s phone lay next to her open purse. I looked at the pistol and realized it was Candi’s.

  “Take it easy, now,” I said, stepping into the room. The door closed behind me.

  “Marty had me call 911. The police are coming,” Candi said. The man nodded. His arms were massive, his acne likely caused by steroid abuse. “So don’t try to be a hero,” he said.

  I watched him from the far side of the room, my hands half-raised. “You called 911 on yourself?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why don’t you put the gun down, then?”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  Before he could answer the door opened, and Marcus Grier stuck his head in. When he saw me he blinked in surprise.

  “Show your hands, real slow,” the man named Marty said, the gun at Candi’s temple. Grier moved through the door, hands out from his sides. Bill Worley followed behind him, and then two more uniformed cops. Marty crouched low behind Candi. “Take those seats back there,” he said. “You too.” Candi stared at me, pale and speechless.

  “What’s this all about?” I said.

  “Where’s Nick Galanis?” Marty said, his eyes wide with a crazed intensity. “Sit down or I’ll kill her, I swear.”

  Grier lowered himself into a student desk. “He’s on his way.”

  “Keep your hands on the desktops,” Marty said. “Don’t make me tell you again.” I sat next to the cops, five of us, all armed and watching the man with the revolver. He had put his left arm around Candi’s waist from behind, shielding his body with hers. His jeans and shirt looked like he’d slept in them, and the oily sheen of his face glowed in the artificial light. He must have driven all night across the Nevada desert after killing his mother and her lover. I felt the weight of the Berretta on my chest, and it took a very conscious effort to keep my hands still.

  Marty Nilsson looked consumed with hatred, his deformed lip set in a snarl. Then, as he peered out from behind Candi’s head, I saw an odd transformation in his countenance. His anger seemed to recede and his visage became that of a vulnerable child’s.

  There was an awkward silence, until Bill Worley said, “Son, what’s your interest in Nick Galanis?”

  “None of your business. I’ll surrender after I speak with him.”

  “You’ll need to lay down your weapon first.” Grier said.

  “Once we’re face to face.”

  We waited a minute, and then another. Candi stood in the clutch of Marty’s oversized arm, and I considered a quick draw but immediately rejected the notion. If I sensed she was in imminent danger I would have gone for my gun. But Marty seemed to have another agenda in mind.

  Footfalls sounded from outside, and the door slowly opened. Marty trained the revolver at the Douglas County policeman who peered in.

  “Just Nick Galanis. No more cops,” Marty said. A brief hubbub, then Galanis stepped into the classroom. He wore pants with a sharp crease and a black suit coat over a lime-green button-down shirt. A tiny smile began on his lips, but ended when his eyes met Marty’s.

  “Come here,” Marty said.

  Galanis pointed with his finger. “You put that gun down.”

  “If I wanted to shoot you, I’d do it now. Come here.”

  Galanis looked over to where the four South Lake cops sat, and when his eyes passed over me, his lips curled in a brief scowl. Then Grier nodded, and Galanis walked to the front of the room, to the side of the table opposite where Marty held Candi.

  “Come around here and I’ll let her go,” Marty said.

  As Galanis stepped slowly around the long table, the officer next to me dropped his hand and released the snap on his holster. But Marty didn’t notice. His eyes were following Galanis, who came to within three feet of Marty, then stopped.

  “Now put the gun down,” Galanis said.

  Marty removed his arm from
Candi’s waist and said, “Go.” Candi ran to the side of the room to where I sat. “Get behind me,” I whispered.

  “Hello, Father,” Marty said. His voice took on a childlike tone, as if he’d regressed to a prepubescent period. “How come you never answered any of the letters I sent you?” Galanis winced and his head jerked as if Marty has spat full in his face.

  “Letters? I never received any. Your gun?” Marty still held the revolver, pointed at the floor.

  “You shouldn’t lie to me, Father. I’m your son. You wouldn’t lie to your son, would you?”

  “You’re not…why do you think we’re related?”

  “My mother told on you, Father. She admitted you fucked her and wanted nothing to do with either of us.”

  “I have no idea who your mother is. You’re crazy. Now put that gun down. Do you think you can get away with this?”

  “Do you think you can get away with what you’ve done? Every birthday and holiday that went by, me alone while you were sticking your cock in any skank you could find. And you know how my slutty mother celebrated Christmas this year? She fucked some guy about my age.”

  “You’re nuts. Put the gun down and we’ll get you some help.”

  “Maybe you’re right. That might be the best thing.”

  “Put the gun down now.”

  “Yes, Father,” Marty said, and set the revolver on the table.

  Galanis glanced toward the back of the room, a smug expression beginning on his face, as if he’d not only absolved himself of guilt or responsibility, but also showcased his talent at managing dangerous situations. And then he reached forward to pick up the gun.

  What happened next occurred in no more than a second. Later, I would think about the moment as similar to the frozen pause an eyewitness experiences before the impact of a high speed traffic accident.

  When Galanis moved within reach, Marty’s left arm shot out and grabbed him by the wrist. Then a silver blade flashed in Marty’s right hand, and he thrust it into Galanis’s neck. A fountain of blood spewed from the wound, and Marty jabbed three more times, blood shooting everywhere. Galanis’s arms flailed, and his features contorted in terror. Then Marty released his grip and Galanis spun and dropped to the floor.

  We all jumped up, and I pulled my piece quicker than the others. Marty dropped the knife and began to raise his hands. The cop next to me was a fraction slower, but he did not hesitate. “No!” I yelled, but it was too late. His first shot hit Marty in the chest, and then the uniform nearest the door fired, the slug tearing a bloody smear in Marty’s shoulder.

  Marty fell, and we ran to the front of the room. The two men lay in a spreading pool of blood. Galanis blinked once, and a tiny cry escaped his parted lips. Then his eyes froze, fixed and staring. Marty lay next to his father, their heads nearly touching. Marty turned his head just enough for his nose to graze Galanis’s curled hair.

  “Now I’ll never have to wonder where you are on Christmas Day, Dad,” Marty said. His head lolled back and he stared up at us and smiled. Then he died.

  16

  The paramedics tried without success to revive the two bleeding men. Meanwhile, police from both sides of the border flooded the campus. Then the press vans arrived. Reporters with shoulder-mounted cameras and microphones ran around making jackasses of themselves, and when they tried to film the paramedics removing the bodies, Marcus Grier exploded and arrested a pair who ignored his commands to stand back. An hour of chaos ensued as the cops cleared the campus. Finally the reporters, students, and most of the cops were gone and things quieted down. Candi and I sat with Bill Worley in an empty classroom and completed our statements.

  “I found Marty Nilsson’s truck parked out there,” Worley said.

  “You go through it yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Found a three foot length of rope.”

  “That settles that.”

  “I reckon so.”

  • • •

  I walked with Candi to where I’d parked. In the vacated parking lot, a tow truck finished hooking up Marty’s gray Ford Ranger and began pulling away. I watched the vehicle disappear down the road. Then I drove us home through crisp, sunny weather that seemed incongruous with the day’s events.

  “I could use a drink,” I said.

  Candi sat with her arms wrapped around each other. “When he came into the classroom I went for my gun. But I screwed up, and he took it from me.”

  “And then he used your phone to call 911?”

  “He had me call the police. But first I pushed the emergency button.”

  “You didn’t screw up, babe. You did great.”

  “Really? It sure doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She looked at me and made a face. “As okay as anyone can be after watching two people die.”

  I pulled into my garage and we went inside. Candi asked for a drink and I made her a weak vodka and fruit juice, and poured myself a double whiskey-seven. Then we sat on the couch and she loaded her pipe.

  “In a way, I feel sorry for Marty,” she said. “My god, that stuff he said.”

  “Most psychopaths come from horrific childhoods. But I don’t think that applied to him.”

  “He felt abandoned by his father, and maybe his mother, too. I think it drove him over the edge. I always thought there was something a little off with him.”

  “No doubt he was tormented. But that’s not an excuse to kill people.”

  She walked to the window and exhaled a puff. “What is?”

  “Self-defense.”

  “How do the laws define that?”

  I looked at her and took a healthy slug off my drink. “State laws differ. Some states say it’s permissible to kill an intruder in your house.”

  “How about proactive self-defense? Like someone threatens to kill you, so you kill them first?”

  “You’d have to prove the threat is imminent and deadly.”

  She made a scoffing sound with her mouth. “By that time, you’d probably already be dead.”

  “The proper legal recourse would be a restraining order.”

  “You think that would work on Jake Massie?”

  I set my drink down, unfinished. “Nope.”

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, I called Bill Worley.

  “Howdy, Dan.”

  “Hey, Bill. Have you learned anything more about Marty Nilsson?”

  “A few things. He was a ski patroller for a couple years out in Utah. He’s moved here only a few months before the murders.”

  “You think he moved here because of Galanis?”

  “Maybe. We’ll never know for sure.”

  “Anything on how he moved Valerie’s body to the backcountry?”

  “Probably never know that either.”

  “How about Tim Elkind, the sheep lover? He still locked up?”

  “They’ll kick him free shortly, I understand.”

  “At least they’re doing something right in Nevada.”

  Worley laughed dryly. “I also heard a couple Douglas County officers are calling for an examination of Galanis’s bank records. They think he was being paid off by various parties.”

  “Galanis was suspected of being on the take since day one,” I said. “And they wait until he’s dead to open an investigation?”

  “Looks that way. Maybe you ought to go talk to them about a job.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Awright, then.”

  • • •

  I spent the remainder of the day concluding my report for General Horvachek. He had said he wanted closure, and now he would have it. I doubted it would provide him and his wife much solace or satisfaction. Their rebellious daughter was still dead, and there was no changing that. She’d done nothing terribly stupid or irresponsible. She hadn’t even been specifically targeted. Her promiscuous behavior had simply landed her in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stopped for a minute and imagined the general and his wife sitting on
their living room sofa, hunched and teary-eyed, looking through a family album, the pictures capturing Valerie as a cute little girl, smiling and happy with her family.

  When I’d finished typing, I read over the report. There were a slew of details I’d never followed up on. Names from Valerie’s cell phone, names of Blood Bastards and War Dogs that Albert Bigelow had provided, and also the names of the ski patrollers that I’d compiled. Hell, I’d never even interviewed Valerie’s best friend, Christie Tedford, who’d been in Tahoe when Valerie was murdered. In retrospect though, none of it would have mattered.

  I shook my head and rubbed at the stubble on my chin. If not for seeing Marty Nilsson’s painting in Candi’s classroom, I might have never identified him as a suspect. In that light, much of the investigative work I’d done prior to that had been meaningless.

  I attached the report to an e-mail and sent it. Almost immediately, my cell rang. Could the general have gotten my e-mail that quickly? No, it was Marcus Grier.

  “What’s happening, Sheriff?”

  “Paper work, that’s what’s happening, if you’re really interested. I just got a phone call you should know about.”

  “You did?”

  “The sheriff in Stockton called to tell me that Jake Massie’s house burned to the ground last Tuesday night. They just completed their forensic work and have a positive ID on Massie’s body.”

  “A fire?” I sputtered. “You’re just telling now?”

  “I just found out about it. Massie and five other bodies were found.”

  “Tuesday night? That was when Massie kidnapped me.”

  “He must have drove home after that,” Grier said, his keyboard clattering.

  “That was a stupid thing to do. He should have figured the cops would be waiting for him.”

  “Well, he didn’t, and they weren’t.”

  “Six people dead? Did anyone get out alive?”

  “No survivors.”

  “They probably were sleeping.”

  “Not necessarily. The sheriff said there was evidence of a massive explosion. They found lumber scattered in a hundred foot radius. Are you still there?”