by Dave Stanton
“No, I didn’t go,” I said, not adding that I spent the night exercising my own perversions with Desiree’s sister.
“How about Mandy?” I said.
“Speaking of whores, you mean? She didn’t seem to have any reaction one way or another. I think she’s too self-centered to care about other people’s problems.”
“I need to talk to Desiree. Do you think she’s up to it?”
Julia’s eyes jumped. “I think it’s too early, Dan. It’s inappropriate.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, and when Julia and Parkash ordered breakfast, I excused myself and went back to the courtesy phone and asked for the room of Desiree McGee.
“Hello, Desiree?” I said.
“No, this is Desiree’s mother. Who’s this?”
“It’s Dan Reno, Shelly. Is Desiree available?”
“I’ll see if she can talk,” she said. A minute later, Desiree picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Desiree. I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, feeling the awkwardness of the words hover in the line between us. “Are you okay?”
“Sort of.”
“Desiree, I’ve been hired by John Bascom to investigate Sylvester’s death. I’d like to sit down with you for a few minutes and talk about some things, ask some questions. It’s something I need to do right away.”
“Like, now?”
“Yes.”
I heard muffled voices, then Shelly came back on the phone.
“Dan, I’m sorry,” she said, “But this is really not a good time.”
“I see. I understand this is difficult. But whoever stabbed Sylvester to death is still at large.” The line was silent for a moment, then I heard muffled voices.
“Okay, where do you want to do this?” Shelly said.
“I’m in the lobby downstairs. It would be best to come up to your room.”
“I suppose that’s okay,” she sighed, “as long as you make it quick. We’re in room five-oh-eight.”
I went out to my car and strapped on my shoulder holster. Then I took the elevator to the fifth floor and knocked on their door. Shelly let me into the room, where Desiree was sitting on the bed in gray sweats and a black sweatshirt. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and I was surprised at how different she looked. But even in her loose-fitting clothes, her body looked toned and slinky. I guess I never noticed before—maybe because I was too distracted by her sister.
There was a bunch of crumpled tissues scattered about the bed and the floor. I stood in the room silently, holding my coat.
“Why are you carrying that gun?” Shelly said in a brittle voice. She was plump and had nice features but was way past her prime. Some women stayed sexy into their fifties. Shelly wasn’t one of them.
“There’s a killer on the loose. There’s a chance he’s here at Caesar’s. I intend to find him, and I don’t expect he’ll surrender easily.”
“Here? In this hotel?”
“I need to talk to you alone, Shelly. Do you have a separate room?”
“Yes, next door.”
“Let’s go,” I said bluntly.
“Des, will you be all right? I’ll be right back.”
We went to Shelly’s room. I had guessed Shelly would be intimidated by the gun and a little B-movie tough talk. It didn’t take much.
I asked Shelly about her perception of the Bascoms and Sylvester and his friends—it became obvious she didn’t know them very well. She said Sylvester was a nice man with a bright future and made some other meaningless remarks that were the type of things people say out of habitual politeness. I listened to her for a couple of minutes then went back to Desiree’s room, after telling Shelly not to disturb us.
She was smoking when she answered the door. She had put on lipstick and had done something with her hair. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were painted red. She sat down at the round table near the window, and I took a seat across from her.
“I want to apologize in advance if any of my questions make you uncomfortable, Desiree. Have the police questioned you yet?”
“Only briefly, yesterday. I talked to the black guy, the sheriff.”
“Not the detectives?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Let’s talk about Sylvester’s friends. I assume the groomsmen were his best friends?”
“Well, basically, yeah,” she said, then gave me a brief rundown on each of them. There was an old high-school buddy who was an accountant at a real estate firm. Another one was married with four kids and worked at Bascom Lumber as a crew supervisor. Next, a Japanese guy, an engineer for Intel Corporation. The fourth was a divorced computer salesman.
She paused, took a final drag off her cigarette, and stamped it out in an ashtray.
“The other one is Sven Osterlund. He and Sly had been friends for about a year, and I’ve only met him a couple times. He’s a real partier.”
“A real partier, huh?” I said. “How so?”
“Well…” she looked down, then glanced at me briefly.
“Don’t worry, this conversation is confidential.”
“Okay. We used to do a little coke, and Sven was the connection,” she said.
I looked out the window. The sky was bright, but there was a dark layer of clouds hanging low over the mountains.
“So you and Sylvester would do coke with Sven?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Not that much,” she said. “Maybe twice a month. Sven always seemed to have it, but I’m not that into it. Sly liked to do it when he was drunk.”
“Did you ever think Sven was weird sexually?” I said.
“Oh, you know about that? Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Yeah, he was into some kinky stuff. Like, he was really into porno movies. He wanted to film them, and he had a big collection. One time he asked Sly and me if we’d be interested in being filmed, and of course we said no way.”
“What else?”
“He was on some kind of voyeurism trip. Sly told me he got off on playing with himself while watching other people have sex. Is this really important?”
“Yes, it could be very important,” I said. “Do you think he influenced Sly with his, uh, preferences?”
Desiree’s dark skin flushed deeper, and she fumbled for another cigarette.
“Desiree?”
“I don’t see how Sly’s and my sex life is of any importance or any of your business,” she said, her eyes flashing. She glared at me like I was a lecherous drunk making an obscene suggestion.
“Look,” I said quietly, “I don’t give a damn what you two did in the privacy of your own home. Movies, group sex, coke, it’s all pretty routine. So don’t think I’m gonna be shocked. But we’re talking about murder. Someone stabbed your fiancé to death, so I need you to get past your embarrassment and answer my questions.”
Desiree looked like she was going to burst into tears, but she dragged off her cigarette until the moment passed. I’d always thought of her as the beautiful, innocent debutante, but she looked like she aged five years before my eyes. The cheerful naïveté of her youth seemed to fade into a past life that was becoming a bitter memory. Her eyes grew hard and defiant, and the smooth skin around her jawline tightened like a clenched fist.
“Fine,” she said. “Sylvester was also into movies. And yes, we have private films of me and of each other. But that’s the extent of it, so don’t cum in your pants. Sven was never involved with us sexually. I would never allow that, not even when we were whacked out on coke. He never filmed us or watched us or anything.”
We sat across from each other in the stillness of the room.
“Look, my life just got flushed down the toilet,” she said. “Are you done with your questions?”
“Just one more. Do you think Sylvester was cheating on you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
******
I returned my pistol to my trunk and went back into Caesar’s to c
all Osterlund’s room again. There was no answer after a half dozen rings, but then I looked up and saw him at the registration counter. He had his bags with him and kept glancing around like he was looking for somebody. His upper back muscles flexed against his white t-shirt, which was tucked into jeans that looked form-fitted to his legs. I waited for him to finish at the desk, then fell in beside him as he walked toward the exit.
“Hey, man,” I said. “You need a lift?”
“Huh? Do I know you?”
“Dan Reno. I went to Oakbrook. You’re Sven, right?”
When he didn’t respond, I said, “I think you were a freshman when I was a senior. I grew up next door to Brad Turner.”
He stopped and peered at me with half-lidded eyes that seemed dead and void of emotion. He looked down on me slightly; he had me by an inch and maybe twenty pounds.
“How’d you know I need a ride?”
“Well, I was drinking with Brad and Whitey last night. They said your truck got ripped off.”
“It didn’t get ripped off, it got fuckin’ towed,” he said. “I could use a ride over to the Lazy Eight. It’s the fleabag they’re staying at.”
“Come on,” I said, leading him outside to my car. He threw his luggage into my backseat, and we drove across the street to the cheap hotel. As soon as we stopped, Osterlund grabbed his bag out of the Nissan and walked to Brad and Whitey’s room. He left my car door open. I walked around and closed it.
He tried to open the door to their room, but it was locked. He pounded on it hard with the meat of his fist. “Open up,” he said. Brad swung the door open, and his jaw dropped.
“Sven, buddy, what the hell, man? Dan? What’s goin’ on?”
“Bong hit, Sven?” Whitey said, his voice a rasp, holding a hit deep in his lungs.
“I saw him over at Caesar’s and brought him over,” I said, following Osterlund in.
Whitey blew out his hit. “Dude, any word on your truck?”
Osterlund loaded himself a bowl out of Whitey’s plastic baggie and lit it. He held it in for about thirty seconds, and when he exhaled there was no smoke.
“Yeah, it’s in the sheriff’s impound lot. They towed it.”
“Those motherfuckers,” Brad said.
“Dude, what’s up with Bascom kickin’ the bucket? Did the cops talk to you about it?” Whitey’s eyes were red and glassy.
Osterlund glanced at me. “Talk about it later,” he mumbled.
“Christ, Sven, what happened last night?” Brad said.
“You got any beers in this dump?” Osterlund said.
“No, we finished our twelve-pack.”
Osterlund pulled a ten out of his wallet, crumpled it up, and threw it in Brad’s direction. “Why don’t you go get us a half rack?”
Brad picked up the ten and smoothed it out. “Okay,” he said, looking at the bill.
“Dude, what about Bascom?” Whitey said. Osterlund cut his eyes toward him, but Whitey was obliviously stoned. “Hey, maybe Dan can help figure out who killed him, he’s a private eye!” Whitey smiled, his jaw hanging stupidly, nodding his head as if it were attached to a spring. Osterlund turned toward me, and I could see the suspicion glowing behind his reptilian eyes.
“How nice, a private investigator,” Osterlund said. “You been messing around with Mandy McGee?”
I felt my brow crease. “What?”
“She told me you short-stroked her the other night. Hope you enjoyed it, but she’s off limits from now on, you got it?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“So, did you fuck her?”
“Is that what she told you?”
“I’m asking you, bitch,” he said, the cords in his neck like taut rope beneath his skin. I was leaning against the windowsill with my arms crossed, and he was on the other side of the room. He stared at me hard.
“Whitey, why don’t you load Sven another bong hit?” I said.
“You got a real smart mouth on you, buddy.”
“What happened at the Crown Ambassador last night?” I said.
“That’s a good question. Why don’t you stick your head up your hole and ask around?”
He took a step in my direction. Brad and Whitey were silent and frozen.
“You and Mandy might consider a future in Mexico,” I said. “I’d say it will take about forty-eight hours for the cops to gather enough evidence to arrest you. If you head south quick, you might make it.”
He shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. Then he pointed at me with two fingers. “It’s time for you to leave, fuckwad.” He came forward and opened the door. No more than four feet separated us. We stood staring at each other.
“Fuckwad, huh?” I said. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“Hit the road, pal, before I rip your throat out.”
“You’re one badass son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
A tight smile formed on his face. He moved his arm in an underhanded motion, gesturing toward the door. I decided I’d split—there was no point in sticking around now, unless I wanted to try to beat a confession out of him. I doubted I could, but for a long moment I was tempted to try.
“You’re welcome for the ride,” I said finally, and as soon as I walked out he kicked me hard in the ass. I whirled around, but he was already in position, and his leg shot out, the sole of his shoe aimed at my chin. But his kick wasn’t quite high enough, and I took the blow in the meat of my chest. Before he could snap his leg back I grabbed his ankle and jerked it upward. He fell back on his neck, bucked his legs and was on his feet like a cat, but not quick enough. I jumped forward and hit him in the jaw with a straight left. His skull snapped back, and I threw a roundhouse right, going for the knockout, but he blocked it neatly, then his fist came out of nowhere and slammed me hard on the side of the face.
The blow sent me reeling out the door and into a maid’s housekeeping cart. The maid screamed as it fell over into the parking lot with a loud crash. Various cleaning supplies and rolls of toilet paper spilled across the pavement and into a snow bank. I scrambled to my feet while Osterlund eyed me from the doorway, with blood on his mouth and the beginnings of a nice fat lip.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said hoarsely, and spat a stream of bloody saliva in my direction. He slammed the door and I heard him lock the bolt. I stood there, and after a moment I helped the maid pick up her cart, then I drove back to the Lakeside.
CHAPTER 9
I lay on my bed for half an hour with an ice pack on my jaw. The adrenaline lump in my stomach had subsided, leaving me with a slight headache. My attempt to get any meaningful information out of Osterlund had backfired miserably, but considering his frame of reference, I couldn’t imagine what would have worked, short of torturing him. I smiled at the thought. If I caught him in his room I could have jolted him with my stun baton, but instead I had hoped to sit around with him, Whitey, and Brad, maybe have a few beers, and if he felt relaxed he might start talking. But he was wound tight as a winch, and now I had lost the element of surprise.
I adjusted the ice pack. The mention of Mandy had come out of left field and caught me off guard—by telling me to stay away from her, was Osterlund insinuating he had plans to win her heart? If so, he could add her to his growing list of problems. But obviously Mandy had told him we’d been together, for what reason I had no idea. I decided I’d talk to Mandy soon. If she was involved with him, she was inviting trouble.
The ice was melting, and cold water began to run off my face and onto the sheet. I pushed myself off the bed, checked the address for the coroner’s office, and saw it was in the same complex as the sheriff’s office. If I moved quickly I could fill my obligation to register my handgun with Marcus Grier before meeting the coroner. If I was skiing and then heading back home today, I would have blown him off. But given the events of the last twenty-four hours, I thought it would be a good idea to comply with his request.
It had warmed up outside and little rivers of water were flowing eve
rywhere, off the icicles that hung from the roofs and eves, across parking lots, around dirt banks and into the street. At night, when the temperature dropped, the runoff would freeze and turn to black ice.
I parked under a grove of immense, old-growth ponderosa that seemed to reach to the boundaries of the sky, and popped my trunk. My gear was stashed in an old suitcase I had secured to one side of the trunk with bungee cords. I opened the suitcase, reached under my bulletproof vest and pulled out the shoulder holster that held my Beretta, then went through the glass doors and into the small lobby of the sheriff’s office.
“Marcus Grier asked to see me about registering my handgun,” I told the receptionist, and set my piece on the counter. We were separated by a thick glass window with a speaker installed in the middle.
“I don’t know any specific form we use for that. I’ll have to call the sheriff.”
A few minutes later Marcus Grier opened the door and motioned for me to follow him.
“I didn’t expect I’d be seeing you, Mr. Reno,” he said as I walked down the hallway behind him. He pronounced my name correctly.
“I’ve been distracted, but I always cooperate with the police, Sheriff.”
We sat in his office. One of the walls was glass, overlooking a dozen or so desks in the main squad room. A few deputies were doing paperwork; among them was the young cop who tried to hassle me at the Midnight Tavern. Fingsten, if I remembered right.
“Yes, South Lake Tahoe can be a distracting town,” Grier said. “Twenty-four-hour drinking and gambling, live titty shows, rock and roll, and all this beautiful scenery.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and he spoke slowly and enunciated with unusual emphasis.
“And every weekend five to ten thousand people come to visit us. They come to enjoy themselves, to partake in all these wonderful activities. They get drunk on free casino liquor and drink in the streets, and then they walk in front of cars, or beat up their wives, or get pick-pocketed. And every so often, someone gets killed. Do you know why I’m telling you this, Mr. Reno?”
“I imagine the weekends are busy for you,” I said.
“Yes, but here’s my point.” He smiled, showing a gold molar in the side of his mouth. “Some of my deputies refer to our visitors as ‘tourons,’ which is a combination of a tourist and a moron. They think they can’t get in trouble or die because they’re on vacation. What I’m getting at, Mr. Reno, is I have enough trouble without a PI from out of town, with a license to carry a concealed firearm, coming into one of our quaint little bars and causing trouble.”