Hard Prejudice: A Hard-Boiled Crime Novel: (Dan Reno Private Detective Noir Mystery Series) (Dan Reno Novel Series Book 5)

by Dave Stanton

  He started whimpering and spewing forth random comments and pleas. I tried to focus on his words, but his ramblings quickly became incoherent. I stood and began toward my truck. Even if I could understand his mishmash of English and Arabic, I doubted there was much value in what he was blubbering. I believed he was truly terrified and had reached the point where he’d say anything to relieve the fear that I’d cut him loose and send him plummeting to his death.

  I climbed into my cab and backed up until I saw him pop over the ledge and onto the dirt. I untied the rope from his ankles and taped his eyes and mouth again and dragged him to where the blue tarp lay on the ground. After wrapping and binding him in the tarp, I yanked the larger, older man out of the truck bed.

  When I tore the duct tape from his eyes and mouth, his face showed no fear or concern.

  “You can take off your mask,” he said. “I know who you are and everything about you.” His accent was far less pronounced than his counterpart’s.

  “You know a lot? That’s good to hear. I’d hate to be wasting my time.”

  “Too bad I’m not in a talkative mood.”

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” I said.

  “A tough guy, eh? Am I supposed to get all fearful?” He smirked and spat a wad of phlegm at my feet.

  I tied the rope around his ankles. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’ve been through all sorts of grim stuff, maybe in the Mideast or Africa, seen men dismembered, seen women and children sodomized and tortured, maybe even participated yourself, probably enjoyed it. Am I on the right track here?”

  “Not really. But let your imagination run wild, if that’s what gets you off.”

  I dragged him to the ledge. “Heights bother you?” I asked.

  “It’s a nice view. I wish it was daylight, so I could see better.” He lay on his front, looking down the face.

  “Let’s see if we can improve your angle.” I gauged the slack in the rope, then I jammed my heel in his buttocks and shoved him over. He fell a couple feet before the rope caught his weight.

  “Comfortable?” I asked.

  “Fuck you,” he grunted.

  “How much effort you think it would take for me to snip the ties on your hands and feet and cut this rope? They’d find you in a couple days, your bones protruding from your skin, your head split open, your brains like scrambled eggs frying on the rocks. They’ll assume it was a suicide or an accident. They’ll scoop what’s left of you and take you to the morgue in a plastic garbage bag. You’ll be declared a John Doe. Nobody will call about you, nobody will invest much in trying to learn who you are. They’ll leave you in a freezer for a while until someone decides you’re no longer worth the space. Then they’ll cremate you and toss your ashes in a Dumpster full of dirty diapers and rotting food.”

  “You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” he said.

  “You get one chance to walk out of this. What’s Farid Insaf up to, and what does Duante Tucker have to do with it?”

  The man chuckled. “You’re a funny guy. You ever consider stand-up?”

  “I’m glad I’m entertaining you. Wait until we get to the punch line.”

  “I’m on a need to know basis with Farid Insaf, you fool. That means he tells me only what I need to know. That’s how the business works.”

  “How did Insaf arrange for Duante Tucker to get off on the rape charge?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I stood and looked around. To my right, the moonlight glinted off a distant steel tower high on a hillside in the closed ski resort. A cable looped from the tower into the darkness. I turned around and gazed past the valley, down toward the lake. A section of Highway 50 was visible, right at the state line. Through the trees, the lights of the casino hotels looked like sparks in the forest. I imagined Candi was lying in bed in one of those hotel rooms, probably sleepless and worrying and wondering about our life together.

  I knelt back down over the ledge. I could see the man’s face was flushed with blood from hanging upside down. But when he looked up at me, he smiled. “Are we done here?” he said.

  “Just another question or two. I won’t take much more of your time, I promise.”

  “What, then?” he asked.

  “That big, black dildo in your bag. How does that fit into your routine?”

  He didn’t say anything for a second. “That’s Basel’s.”

  “And the S&M skin mag? His too?”

  “You got it.”

  “You were just going to sit and watch while he tormented the woman you intended to abduct from my house?”

  “That’s his thing, not mine.”

  “Sorry, that doesn’t flush. I think you work as a team.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  My stun baton was a foot and a half long. I made sure it was set on maximum voltage, then I held onto a crack in the rock, reached down, and extended my arm. I jabbed the baton into where his testicles hung between his legs. “Your equipment may not work so well after this, but let’s consider it a social service,” I said. Then I pushed the button and sent eight hundred thousand volts into his genitals.

  His body jerked violently, saliva sprayed from his mouth, and the curly hair around his ears stood straight out. The rope scraped and bounced against the rock, and a wisp of smoke rose from his crotch.

  I waited until he stopped shaking. “Tell me about Farid Insaf and Duante Tucker,” I said.

  “I don’t know any Duante,” he said, his voice a labored hiss.

  “Round two,” I said, and reached down again. When the current coursed through his body, he bucked so hard his head slammed against the rock wall. His breath came in heaves, and a loop of yellow snot lay across his cheek.

  “All right, buddy,” I said pleasantly. “I zap you again, your nuts are gonna look like raisins and be about as functional. So you get to dictate your fate here.”

  When he spoke, agony and the beginnings of panic were plain in his tone. “Three days,” he moaned. “He said hold her for three days, then we could do anything we want with her.”

  “Farid Insaf said this?”

  “Yes. And I never heard of Duante Tucker. I don’t know who that is.”

  “What did Farid mean by three days?” I asked. “What’s he up to?”

  “He said he’ll be leaving in three days, but he’ll wire me payment.”

  “Leaving to where?”

  “Pakistan, Syria, maybe Qatar. He didn’t tell me.”

  “Is he involved in jihad?”

  He groaned in pain and squeezed his eyes shut. “He’s involved in whatever pays the most. That’s all I know. I think I’m going to puke. Please, that’s all I know.”

  • • •

  Once the kidnappers were secure in my truck bed, I checked my cell and saw I had missed a call from an unknown number beginning with a Sacramento area code. I began to drive down the rutted road, then stopped and returned the call.

  “Dan Reno?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Yeah?”

  “Greg Stillman, Central Intelligence Agency. I’d like to speak with you regarding Lawrence Tucker.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you have information as to his whereabouts?”

  “You don’t have him in custody?”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “Skyscape building in San Jose, unit 1602. That’s where he lives.”

  “That unit is vacant. Scrubbed clean, not even a fingerprint.”

  I turned off my motor and set the e-brake. “One of his associates, Lennox Suggs, was renting a dump in east San Jose. I’ll text you the address.”

  “You think Suggs is there?”

  “No. He’s recently deceased, victim of an automobile accident. But it’s possible you might find Duante Tucker there.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Lawrence’s nephew. He’s involved up to his eyebrows.”

  “Involved i
n what?”

  “Whatever Lawrence Tucker is planning, which at a minimum is bringing heroin into the US. I also think it’s likely he’s involved in terrorist activities.”

  The line went silent for a moment. When Stillman spoke, his voice was precise, the words clipped. “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve been investigating Duante Tucker. I’ve also got two Arabs in the back of my truck, men hired by Farid Insaf, which is Lawrence Tucker’s alias. They broke into my home and intended to kidnap my girlfriend. They told me Tucker is planning jihad.”

  “You have these men in custody?”

  “That’s right. I’m making a citizen’s arrest, and I’m pressing charges, too. I’m taking them to the police station here in South Lake Tahoe.”

  “Are these men secured? They can’t escape?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Another pause, then he said, “You seem quite resourceful. I’m getting on a helicopter. I’ll meet you at the police station in forty-five minutes. Please confirm you’ll wait for me there.”

  “I always cooperate with the authorities, Mr. Stillman.”

  “I hope you’re not being sarcastic.”

  “Nope, that’s straight up,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said. “I look forward to meeting you.”

  • • •

  Marcus Grier reacted exactly as I anticipated when I called him. It was midnight, and he was groggy, angry, and confused, in that order.

  “Just meet me at the station, Marcus. A CIA guy named Stillman is on the way from Sacramento.”

  “This is related to Duante Tucker?” he sputtered.

  “Right. You better get dressed. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  He started to protest, but I interrupted him. “We’ll talk when I see you,” I said, and disconnected the call.

  • • •

  When Grier pulled into the police parking lot, I was standing next to my truck. He looked in the bed where the two men were still wrapped in the plastic tarps.

  “They’re mercenaries, terrorists, hired henchmen—call them whatever you want,” I said. “I caught them breaking and entering my home. They intended to kidnap Candi. I doubt they’re US citizens, and they’re probably here illegally. Lock them up. I’m pressing charges, but that might be a moot point once the CIA gets their hands on them.”

  Grier went inside the complex and returned with two patrolmen. They untied the Arabs, cuffed them, and took them to a cell. Then Grier and I went to his office.

  “Those guys looked in pretty sorry shape. Things get a little rough?” Grier sat at his desk and closed his eyes tightly, then opened them wide and blinked a few times.

  “For them it did,” I replied.

  “You really think they’re mercenaries?”

  “They’re pros, especially the older one. But they got lazy and underestimated the situation.”

  Grier grunted and fixed his bloodshot eyes on me. “You make them talk?”

  I nodded. “I think they told me all they know about Lawrence Tucker, aka Farid Insaf.”

  “Anything about Duante?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you learn anything that could help solve the case?” he asked.

  I sighed and shook my head. “Not really.”

  Grier leaned forward and sat with his palms pressed to his forehead. “I’m tired, Dan. I’m tired of being questioned by internal affairs, and I’m tired of lie detector tests and newspaper articles accusing my force of being corrupt. And I’m tired of not being able to walk past a cop or even a goddamned clerk without wondering if they were the ones who took that evidence.”

  “Hang in there,” I said.

  “I don’t need your sympathy,” he said, his voice rising, but his anger quickly tailed off. “I just want to find out what happened and put this mess behind us.”

  “Cody and I are still working some leads. But he’s laid up for now.”

  “Laid up?”

  “Took a bullet to the leg. Not serious.”

  “Shot, again?” Grier exclaimed. “That Gibbons is a magnet for lead.”

  “He’s a big target.”

  “That he is. Tell him to get well soon.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later we heard the thumping slap of the helicopter blades. The chopper landed in the parking lot, and two figures in army fatigues jumped out, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They were followed by two men wearing suits and ties. They ducked low and ran to the entrance of the building, where Grier and I stood waiting.

  One of the suits had gray around the temples and wore wire-rimmed glasses. He asked to be taken to the cell holding the two men. The soldiers went with him, leaving Grier and me with a tall, hollow-cheeked man with piercing blue eyes that seemed mismatched with his pitted complexion.

  “Greg Stillman,” he said. “Let’s go to a room.” Grier led us to his office, but when he got there, Stillman said, “I’m sorry, Sheriff Grier. I need to interview this man in private. I hope you don’t mind.” I caught a brief glimpse of Grier’s expression, surprised and offended, before Stillman shut the door.

  Stillman turned on a recorder, and I was true to my word with the CIA agent. I told him everything I knew about the Tucker clan and their associates. Aside from avoiding any detail that would implicate me in a crime, I gave a full recounting of my investigation into Duante Tucker’s rape of Lindsey Addison. As I expected, he had little interest in the rape case. He was only interested in the auxiliary characters to the extent that they could lead him to Lawrence Tucker.

  “I’d bring in Abdul Talwar,” I said. “He owns a restaurant in Fremont, and he’s likely partnered up with Tucker in the heroin business.”

  “What about Duante Tucker? Why do you think he might be complicit in a terrorist plot?”

  “Because I think Lawrence Tucker somehow arranged to get him off the rape charge. That wasn’t easy or cheap. So whatever Lawrence is up to, Duante’s involved.”

  “And the sister, Shanice?”

  “I’d consider her a person of interest. She’s been to the Skyscape, visited Tucker there. And here’s a line of questioning you might pursue; she’s a prostitute, and one of her johns is Russ Landers, captain at SJPD.”

  Stillman raised his eyes, considered that for a moment, then changed direction. “Do you have any ideas where the plastic explosives you saw came from?”

  “Ahmad Jones died with Lennox Suggs in a car crash. Jones was a marine. I think Tucker still has contacts in the marines, working with him—or for him.”

  Stillman looked away, his blue eyes cold, his jaw set. He nodded briefly, as if I’d confirmed something he hoped wasn’t true.

  • • •

  At three in the morning I left the police complex, right after the helicopter took off with the two men I’d dangled over a cliff and tortured. They would no doubt be subjected to rigorous interrogation at the hands of the CIA, but it would probably seem mild compared to what I had put them through. In hindsight, I didn’t feel the slightest remorse over how I treated them. They crossed a line when they entered my home, and their intentions were of a nature I did not wish to dwell upon. Simply stated, they belonged to an unfortunate human subspecies that, by their actions, forgo any claim to leniency or mercy. Their pain and suffering is by their own design.

  When I left, Marcus Grier was asleep on a couch in the squad room. I didn’t bother waking him. My mind was unsettled, but I was dead tired and could barely keep my eyes open as I drove to Harrah’s.

  I called Candi’s cell and told her I was coming, and when I knocked, she was waiting at the door without the nightshirt or panties she usually wore to bed. Her naked body was luminescent in the moonlight that shone through the twentieth floor window. She came to me, and we fell into bed together. Her eyes were full of questions and concern, but we did not make love or have conversation, because I was asleep before I could remove my clothes.
>
  10

  We were having breakfast in the coffee shop the next morning when my cell rang. It was ten o’clock, and I was still tired and really not ready to begin the day. That thought was compounded when I saw who was calling.

  “Are you going to answer that?” Candi asked.

  “It’s Ryan Addison,” I said. “I’ll call him back.”

  “Dan, you look exhausted. I can see it in your face.”

  “The last couple days have been pretty busy.”

  “Let’s go home,” she said. “I think you should take the day off.”

  “That’s a nice thought.”

  “How much longer you think you’ll be working this case?”

  I rubbed my unshaven jaw. “Maybe three days. Hopefully, not more than that.”

  “Come on, stud. Let’s go back to our house.”

  We left the restaurant, and I drove us through my neighborhood and down the street where the would-be kidnappers’ green rental car had been parked. It was no longer there, probably towed to the police impound yard. I pulled into my garage, and after Candi went inside, I removed the tarps and rope from my truck bed and put them away. Then I went inside and mopped the area where the kidnappers had entered my home, and then I mopped the path where I had dragged them to the garage.

  When I was done, I showered and turned the water as hot as I could stand it and let the torrent beat on my neck until the bathroom was thick with steam. Afterward I put on shorts and flip-flops and went outside to the deck and sat at my picnic table in the sun. I looked past the back fence and the grasslands to where the mountains rose against a sky flecked with tiny wisps of clouds. I stared at the sky for a long time. It was a warm, beautiful morning, and the natural elements—the sun, the trees, the earth—all seemed in peaceful harmony. It was so quiet I could hear the gurgle of the stream in the meadow.

  I sat there and tried to appreciate and absorb the tranquility of the moment. I told myself that benevolent forces would once again rule the day, and that the violence and evil that had been visited upon me was of my own choosing, and I could also choose for it to be temporary. I told myself that the CIA would no doubt find Lawrence Tucker and halt whatever nefarious schemes he had hatched. I also told myself that Duante Tucker would likely be picked up by the feds and would be jailed once his complicity with Lawrence Tucker was revealed. In that scenario, my investigation could be brought to a premature conclusion. If the Tuckers were incarcerated, it might effectively end any chance of uncovering the story behind the disappearance of the DNA evidence.