Stateline

by Dave Stanton

  “What? Were you drunk?”

  “Sober, believe it or not. Remember those hookers I was telling you about? I think one of them sent her boyfriend and another dude after me. Somehow they found my car in the airport parking lot and cut the brake lines. Then they rammed me off Highway 80 with their truck. I flipped and ended up at the bottom of a canyon in the Truckee River.”

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I was lucky. But the guys came after me in the canyon.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “What happened?”

  “I told the first one to drop his gun-”

  “But he didn’t,” Cody interjected.

  “Yeah. And so I-”

  “Blew his freaking head off?”

  “No, I aimed low, but he moved and took it in the gut.”

  “Christ, I’d rather get my brains blown out than take one in the gut,” Cody said. “I remember when one of our guys on the force had to wear a colostomy bag for six months.”

  “This guy’s not gonna need a colostomy bag.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “Well, fuck him. What about the other guy?”

  “He opened up on me with an automatic weapon, sounded like an Uzi. I returned his fire and scared him away.”

  “I guess we ought to go find this man and engage him in philosophical discussion, eh?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, no longer so reluctant to enlist Cody’s buffalo-style ways.

  ******

  Before Cody hung up, I asked him to run a report on Michael Dean Stiles. I was hoping something in his police record might be helpful. Cody said he’d try, as the unmistakable voice of an unhappy woman rang out in the background.

  The Truckee detectives met me in the lobby, and we went next door to a small coffee and pastry joint. They pushed me quite a bit harder than the Nevada County sheriff, but I didn’t give them any names besides Sylvester Bascom. Eventually they left me after I suggested they confer with Detectives Raneswich and Iverson from South Lake Tahoe PD. Surely they’d have more valuable information than I could offer, I said.

  The skies were dark and heavy when I called Edward to give him his daily update.

  “Tell John Bascom there were three men in the room when Sylvester was murdered. Two are now dead,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Edward said. I heard the phone moving around and muffled voices.

  “Reno, this is John Bascom.” The words boomed through the small speaker. “Tell me what’s happening,” he barked, as if it were an order. I was tempted to say, “Yes, sir,” but I wasn’t in the mood for it. “There were two call girls and three men in Sylvester’s room when he was stabbed,” I said.

  “You know this for sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they doing there? Do you have their names?”

  “One of them was Sven Osterlund. He was watching through a peephole in the closet. At this point, I think one of the hookers set up Sylvester to be robbed. But he and Osterlund fought back, and that’s when Sylvester was stabbed. I think Osterlund was shot the next day because he witnessed Sylvester’s murder.”

  Bascom was silent for a moment. “My son was killed for what, whatever cash was in his wallet?”

  “That’s possible. But there may be more to it.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s still conjecture at this point, but drugs and blackmail may be involved.”

  “Blackmail? Who was in the room besides Osterlund?”

  “The second man was Michael Dean Stiles. He’s the boyfriend of one of the hookers, and he ran me off the road and shot at me last night.”

  “He did? Is he the one who stabbed Sylvester?”

  “No.”

  “But he was there, so let’s bring him to the police as a witness. Where is he?”

  “The morgue.”

  Bascom didn’t even pause. “Goddammit! You killed him?”

  “I was trying to wound him.”

  “So what happens now? Do you know who killed my son?”

  “No. But I hope to in twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, that’s the first decent news I’ve heard. I swear, whoever it is will fry in hell.”

  “One way or another, I suppose.”

  “Reno, I advise you get a hold of these two incompetents who call themselves detectives. They’re looking for you.”

  “Apparently they’re not the only ones,” I said.

  ******

  The snow had started falling when I left the hotel. It was still an hour before noon, and I wandered into the empty saloon on the corner to wait for Cody. I was watching the snowfall in silence and sipping a beer when he burst through the doorway.

  “What, what? Ha, I didn’t even try your hotel! I knew you’d be at the nearest bar. You drunk!” His voice echoed off the walls. He came up behind me, massaging my neck and shoulders with his huge hands. I lost my balance and almost fell off the barstool.

  “Come on, Dirt, cheer up! Do they serve food here? Where the hell is everybody? This place is like a ghost town.”

  “You’re looking good, Cody.”

  “What? My ass! Have you gone queer? I’m over three hundred again!”

  His frame was so big he could gain or lose thirty pounds and not look any different. He sat down next to me. The barstool groaned but held; I’d seen him collapse smaller chairs.

  “Things okay back home?” I asked.

  “Sure, wonderful. Debbie’s a great wife, as long as I’m not there. I imagine our relationship would be perfect if we got together maybe once a month to screw.”

  “Marriage is a tough gig.”

  “I’d say it’s a dying institution. You have any luck with the broads lately?”

  “Not like the old days,” I said. But then I told him about Beverly Howitt and her involvement in the case.

  “You gonna see her again?” he asked.

  “Maybe. But first I got to find this Samoan, or whatever he is.”

  “Let’s go track him down.”

  “Right,” I said. “He wrecked my damn car.”

  “So? Your car was a piece of shit anyway.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Okay, fine,” Cody said.

  “Anyway, I want to try to take him alive. Right?”

  “Hey, Dan, this prick shot at you. Let’s go stomp his shit into the tar.”

  “Not my job, Cody. I just need to deliver him to collect the bounty.”

  “Bounty’s balls. That’s something I could never figure out about you, Dirt. Someone tries to kill you, and you’re nonchalant about it. But I’ve seen guys insult you, and you want to rip them apart with your bare hands.”

  “I killed a man last night, Cody.”

  “Like that guy whose skull you fractured down in LA,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Or that dude you sent to the hospital outside of that bar in Gilroy. Remember that time?”

  “Every time you remind me.”

  “Well, I think it’s time to rack up some more memories,” he said, his hand clasped on the back of my neck, his fingers rough as raw leather against my skin.

  We had lunch then hit the road in Cody’s Dodge truck, driving south on Highway 89, past Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts, through Tahoe City, and around the lake. The snow continued to drift down from above, and Cody shifted his transfer case into four-wheel drive as we went over the grade above Emerald Bay. I pointed out to Cody that Osterlund’s body was found in the bay. He shook his head.

  “Why would someone dump his body there?” he said, his red beard glowing beneath his hard eyes. “In plain sight? Unless they wanted him to be found. Like they’re trying to send a message.”

  “Could be they wanted to scare me off.”

  “Maybe it’s time you sent a message of your own.”

  I found myself watching the passing cars carefully, and I adjusted Cody’s side-view mirror so I could see behind us. I took my piece out of its holster and balanced its weight in my palm,
feeling the cold metal grips against my skin.

  My cell rang as we dropped into the valley, driving on 50 toward Stateline.

  “Dan Reno, Detective Paul Iverson,” the voice said. “What do you say we get together and shoot the breeze this afternoon?”

  “I’ve got a busy schedule.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. You sound like an industrious man.”

  “That’s how it is when you work for yourself,” I said, and the line went quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “Can I meet you at the Lakeside at three o’clock?”

  “We can meet at The King’s Head,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you there at three.”

  We pulled into the King’s Head a few minutes early, and the only other car in the parking lot was a blue Ford Explorer with an E-series license plate. I decided to leave my gun in Cody’s truck. Wouldn’t need it for a meeting with a cop.

  A solitary man was shooting pool when we walked in. He didn’t look like a policeman—more like a casting reject from a vampire movie. The paleness of his face made me wonder if he was ill, or afflicted with a disease of the skin. When he moved around the table he seemed to glide gracefully, like a ballet dancer. His blond hair was lank and barely covered his scalp, even though he wasn’t going bald. He held the pool cue with thin, almost dainty fingers that were a lighter shade than the white pine of the cue itself. Even his clothes struck me as odd; he wore red slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt.

  “Ah, you must be Dan Reno,” he said, looking up with nearly translucent blue eyes. “Watch this.” He had lined up a two-rail bank shot. He missed it by a foot.

  “I’ve seen better shots in a doctor’s office,” Cody said.

  “Or on a bar,” I added.

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled without parting his lips. “It must be my lucky day, I get a couple comedians. I’m Paul Iverson.”

  “Where’s your partner, Raneswich?” I said.

  “He thought it would be best if I met with you.”

  “That’s good thinking on his part. I hear he’s quite the asshole,” Cody said. But Iverson laughed. “That’s not an uncommon opinion,” he replied. “Let’s talk about the murder of Sylvester Bascom.”

  “Speak freely, Detective,” I said.

  “I’d like to know what you’ve learned in your investigation.”

  “I’d like to know what you’ve learned in yours.”

  “Tit for tat then, is it?”

  “However you want to put it.”

  Iverson didn’t look happy with my response. Two men were sitting at the end of the bar, huddled over pints and shots. One of them was slurring and babbling noisily about his gambling losses. The bartender looked to where we stood and said, “What’ll it be, mates?”

  “Has that guy been here all day?” Iverson said, jerking his thumb at the whining drunk.

  The bartender glanced at his watch. “Not yet,” he said. Iverson shook his head and led us to a table in the back.

  “We identified a hooker we believe was in the hotel room at the Crown,” he started. “But we can’t find her. The escort service she worked for is closed, and their records have vanished.”

  “Dana’s Escorts?”

  “That’s right. Tell me what you know about them.”

  “I talked to them,” I said, thinking that Dana’s would have been the immediate link to Beverly Howitt. But it sounded like they’d folded up their operation.

  “They told me a woman named Samantha was sent to the Crown,” I offered.

  “Samantha Nunez,” Iverson said.

  “Right.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “At a whorehouse down near Vegas,” I said, without a twinge of regret. I had promised Samantha I’d not turn her in, but since I figured she sent Mr. 187 after me, the deal was null and void.

  “The Cat’s Meow,” he said. “She’s no longer there. You have any idea where she might be?”

  “None. On second thought, you might find her at the funeral of Michael Dean Stiles.”

  Iverson looked at me with narrow eyes. “Why?”

  “He was Samantha’s boyfriend. I suspect that after I talked to Samantha, she called him, and he decided to try to kill me. My assumption is he was involved in Bascom’s death.”

  “And now Stiles is dead,” Iverson said. We stared at each other. After a moment he looked down, tracing a figure-eight pattern on the table with his finger.

  “What else did Samantha tell you?”

  “Not much. She was in the room, and she said a big black man tried to rob Bascom. Bascom resisted and got stabbed.”

  “A big black man, huh? And how did this supposed big black man get in the room?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Did she let him in? It sounds like she must have.”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Mr. Reno, I’m getting a strong impression you’re being less than forthright.”

  I shook my head. “Detective, Samantha Nunez is not dumb, nor is she easy to intimidate. She lives on the edge, and she’s a survivor. I was lucky to find her and even luckier to get anything out of her. I’ve told you everything she said.”

  Iverson wasn’t naïve. He knew I was being obtuse, but he had nothing to charge me with, and he hadn’t offered any information of value, which meant he had no bargaining chips. His frustration hung over him like a cloud of stale cigarette smoke.

  “What about the black guy? Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Hey, Detective,” Cody said. “What’s the worst-tasting drink you’ve ever had?”

  “What’s your point?” Iverson said irritably.

  “Come on, think about it. You ever have a really shitty-tasting drink?”

  Iverson looked at me. I shrugged.

  “I don’t have time for games,” he said, but then he leaned back in his chair. “All right, you ever have a Slow Comfortable Screw? It’s a screwdriver with a shot of sloe gin and Southern Comfort. Tastes like cow piss with sugar. Why?”

  “The expression on your face—you look like you just drank one.” Cody grinned and raised his beer. Iverson looked offended for a second, then actually smiled. “If you’re thinking about a career in stand-up, don’t quit your day job,” he said.

  I listened to the exchange without amusement. Iverson stood and motioned for me to follow him, while Cody headed to the men’s room.

  “Look,” he said, as we walked to the front door, “you and your buddy there are playing with fire. If I were you, I’d consider leaving town.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Just don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Now why would I do that, Detective?” I said, but he looked at me like I already had.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Iverson pushed open the door to leave, two uniformed cops burst in. One was Deputy Fingsten, and the other was a square-shouldered man in a cowboy hat. Fingsten drew his revolver and pointed it at me.

  “Assume the position, asshole,” he said.

  “What the hell is this?” I said to Iverson, who was either surprised or doing a good job acting the part.

  “What’s going on, Sheriff?” Iverson said.

  “Go back to your office, Detective,” the older cop said. “This man’s being arrested on a number of charges. You’re not needed here.”

  “What charges?” Iverson said, while Fingsten handcuffed me.

  “Take your pick. He’s an enemy of the people.”

  “What charges, Sheriff?” Iverson said again.

  “Detective, this is county business. I advise you don’t interfere.” I caught the sheriff’s eye, then read the name printed in gold on his shirt: Conrad Pace. He grabbed me behind the arm, Fingsten took my other arm, and they led me outside.

  Iverson stepped in f
ront of the sheriff. “I’m in the middle of interrogating him,” he said.

  “You can have him after he’s booked. Try tomorrow,” Pace said, and elbowed Iverson aside.

  Iverson watched the men walk me across the parking lot. Fingsten pushed me into the backseat of a squad car. As we drove off, I saw Cody burst out through the doors of the bar, his face hot and red, as if he was greatly embarrassed.

  We pulled out onto 50. Pace drove and Fingsten sat next to me in the backseat. After a minute I looked at him and said, “I guess you’re not gonna read me my rights.”

  Fingsten’s arm shot out and he backhanded me across the face. The same blow from a stronger man would have broken my nose, but his shot just made my eyes water uncontrollably.

  “You got the right to shut your fucking mouth,” Fingsten said.

  “This how you treat the tourists, Sheriff?” I said.

  Fingsten hit me across the face again, harder than before, the back of his fist catching me flush in the nose, and this time I thought he might have broken it. My arms flexed impotently behind my back, and a dark rage rose in my throat. I leaned back, bent my right knee to my chest, and slammed my foot into Fingsten’s chest as hard as I could. He tried to block the kick, but my boot went through his hands like a jackhammer through dry twigs, and my heel pounded into his torso with enough force to snap ribs and cause internal bleeding. Fingsten’s body shot into the door, his eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.

  “Goddamn you, that may be the last mistake you’ll ever make,” the sheriff said, and he stepped on the gas. We turned off the highway, then we were driving through a residential neighborhood and then down a dirt road. The car lurched to a stop, and I caught a glimpse of Conrad Pace, his face torqued with fury, his hand grasping his pistol by the barrel as he got out and opened my door.

  ******

  When I came to, the first thing I saw was Louis Perdie’s face up close, his complexion rutted and pitted with blackheads. I was sitting in the snow, my hands still cuffed behind me. Perdie held a coffee cup, and he splashed the contents in my face. I blinked the icy water from my eyes. “He’s awake,” Perdie said.

  “Rise and shine, shit for brains,” Conrad Pace said. He knelt down in front of me. When I lifted my head to meet his eyes, a sharp pain in the back of my skull made me dizzy, and I had to look back down.

  “Here’s how it’s gonna be, private eye,” Pace said. He snatched my head up by the hair. “When we’re done with you, you’re gonna want to get as far away from Silverado County as quick as you can. You don’t stop to eat, piss, get medical attention, nothing. All you’re gonna want to do is get your ass out of my county. Because if you don’t, I promise the only way you’ll leave is in a body bag. Does that make sense to you? I know you’re a stupid fuck, so I want to make sure I’m getting through. Hey! Look at me, asshole!”