by Dave Stanton
“Where?”
“Along the stream out there,” I said, pointing toward the meadow behind my house.
Cody raised his eyebrows. “Let’s suit up and go hunting.”
• • •
A nearly full moon lit the creek and the thick grasslands sweeping out toward the snowcapped peaks a mile away. We crept along a trail that ran aside the stream, stopping every ten paces to listen for sounds that didn’t belong. Did it make sense for Loohan to camp close to where I lived? No, but I’d given up trying to assign logic to his behavior. I was still trying to assimilate that not only was Loohan still around, but now he was taunting me, letting me know he was here and apparently not at all concerned about the threat I posed. But it was more than that. Within the blatant desecration of my property, his message was clear. He wanted me to know he had the ability to take me out at will.
I suppose he could have left some campy, threatening note taped to my door, telling me I better be looking over my shoulder. He could have written out his intention to do me harm, to settle the score for both my ongoing efforts to arrest him and my apprehension of his best friend. But that wasn’t Loohan’s way. He let his actions speak instead. In doing so, he remained less tangible and more ominous.
We came to a marshy section of the path and veered away from the creek, into the scrub where the ground was more firm. The rushing water should have obscured the sound of our boots crunching over the underlying dry grass, but I cringed with every step. I crouched as we moved forward, head low, my Beretta trained on a cluster of trees thirty feet ahead. The straps of my body armor dug into the tops of my shoulders, distracting me momentarily. I stopped, and Cody came up from behind, my sawed-off scattergun in his hands. We paused, staring into the trees. Then we heard a faint ticking sound.
Cody circled to the left, and I continued toward the trees, which I could now see were four large aspens, one which had fallen and rested at a sharp angle against another. Beneath them was a dense clump of deadfall. Whether there was a clearing inside the thicket was impossible to say. I moved one step at a time, lifting my knees high and bringing them down slowly.
The ticking sound again, definitely metallic. Cody had reached the tangle of branches and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, aiming into the brush. He nodded at me and I kept moving until I saw a trail of flattened grass. My automatic clenched in both hands, I inched my way along, until I could see the edge of a clearing.
In two running steps I burst forward, my arms locked, my finger poised on the trigger. In the sights of my firearm was the forehead of a skinny man sitting cross-legged, a fork in one hand, a tin can in the other, his food half-chewed in his open mouth. A small, battery powered lamp rested between his legs. He had light-colored hair and was perhaps twenty-five years old.
“Shit,” I said. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Darrel.” His eyes were bulbous, like two eggs with pupils. A forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor was propped against his side.
“Clear, Cody,” I said.
“Right,” he said, and I heard him coming around the thicket.
“How long have you been here tonight, Darrel?”
“Since sundown,” he stammered. I put my piece back in my shoulder holster.
“Have you heard a motorcycle out on the trail?”
“No, sir.”
“You got a cell phone?”
“I do. But it ain’t always charged.”
“If you see a man on a dirt bike camping out here, call me. If it’s who I’m looking for, I’ll buy you enough beer to keep you drunk through the summer.”
The thought was enough to put a wide smile on his face. I gave him my business card, then Cody and I hiked back to the creek.
“Haven’t seen any motorcycle tracks,” Cody said.
“The trail turns too narrow for a dirt bike in about a half mile,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”
We crossed the stream when we reached that point, a steep, rocky section, the fast water glinted with silver in the moonlight. Then we doubled back on the opposite side, slipping in and out of the shadows wordlessly, smelling the air for traces of exhaust, scanning the dirt for tread marks. Nothing.
It was midnight when we got back to my house. Before we went in, I checked the windows and back door. Satisfied nothing had been tampered with, we went inside. We stood in the dark interior, looking out the front window at the damage done to my lawn
“I’d say fifty-fifty we’ll see the cocksucker before sun up,” Cody said.
“He’s unpredictable, but at least we know he’s still in town.”
Cody tapped the barrel of my shotgun against the window glass.
“Here’s my prediction,” he said. “Jason Loohan’s got a death wish—his own.”
I shrugged out of my shoulder holster and made sure the safety on the Beretta was clicked off.
“I’m going to sleep out here,” I said, setting my piece on the coffee table.
Cody pulled down the shades on the front window. “Tomorrow,” he said, and ambled off to the guest room.
Boots on, Kevlar vest heavy on my chest, I lay on the couch. I dozed for a while, more in a state of semi-slumber than deep sleep. At around two I checked the house and walked out to my porch. I peered down the street and then out to the meadow, and after a minute, I came back in. Loohan was probably sleeping soundly in a hotel room somewhere, I thought.
I lay down again, closed my eyes, and hoped for some degree of rest. I rose once more at five and double-checked the doors and windows, then sat on my couch with my pistol in hand. The dawn came slowly.
18
At first light that morning, Pete Saxton took a cup of coffee to the cedar table on his deck, and watched the sun rise over a granite cliff layered with shelves of snow. Beneath the rock face, mist rose from the trees. The green mountainside stretched for miles along the horizon.
He lit his first Camel of the day, coughed up a wad of phlegm, and hawked it onto his lawn. It was two in the morning when he’d got home last night, after a visit to a woman in Truckee he sometimes dated. The horny bitch, he thought, snickering as he remembered how she begged for it up the ass. He’d planned on being on the road by midnight at the outside, but she was insatiable. God, he was tired. But he’d been waking at 6:00 A.M. for so many years he couldn’t sleep later no matter how hard he tried.
Exhaling a stream of smoke, Saxton’s thoughts returned to the murder of Joe Norton. The fingerprint and ballistics results would be in by the afternoon. Hopefully they would provide some direction. Saxton stared out into the sky, which had already turned a tranquil baby blue, soft puffs of clouds dispersing as the sun came full over the ridgeline. The scene looked like something from a postcard, but it did nothing to ease the trepidation idling in Saxton’s gut.
When Saxton and Boyce had gone to Pistol Pete’s to tell Severino his main man at HCU was dead, it had not gone well. Not that Saxton expected it to, but Severino’s reaction was worse than anticipated, especially from a man who seemed almost incapable of emotion.
“What?” he’d hissed, when Saxton relayed the news. Severino’s normally dead eyes came alive as if jolted by electric shock.
“We think it happened around two in the morning,” Saxton said. “Someone shot him while he slept.”
“Unloaded a magazine into him,” Boyce added.
Severino rose from his desk, his face taught, as if the skin was stretched over an axe blade. He came around and walked behind the chairs where Saxton and Boyce sat. The office became silent. Severino faced the door and pressed his hands together, like he was performing an isometric exercise. After a minute he released his breath and turned to the two detectives he was paying off.
“Who do you think did it?” he said.
“I think we’re looking at two possibilities,” Saxton said, swiveling in his chair to meet Severino’s dark stare. “First, the guy you said Norton had taken down south, Jason Loohan. From what I gather, he’s a treacherous son of a bitch.”
“What would be his motivation?” Severino said.
“I’m not sure, yet, but I consider him a person of interest.”
Severino curled his upper lip, his nostrils twitching as if the air was fouled.
“What else?” he said.
“I think we have to consider the possibility this is retaliation from the Mexicans.”
“I thought you said they were a bunch of pissant spics.”
“That’s still what I think,” Saxton said. “But they’d definitely have motive.”
“Who’s gonna take over for Norton?” Boyce said.
Severino ignored the question. He walked back behind his desk and sat, leaning forward on his elbows.
“Your weekly envelopes are on hold for now.”
“On hold?” Boyce said. “For what?”
“Norton was running the show,” Severino said, addressing Saxton. “Without him, it creates problems. I need time to come up with a solution.”
“What do you want us to do in the meantime?”
“I suggest you go find who killed Joe Norton,” Severino said, his eyes boring into the cops. “We need to eliminate the threat, don’t you think?”
• • •
Saxton finished his coffee and went inside to eat breakfast. He didn’t quite know what to make of Severino’s claim that Norton’s death prevented the gang’s ability to do business, and the payoffs would be on hold. Maybe it was Severino’s way of asserting the money was not automatic, that the pay was based on the gang’s performance. Saxton shook his head at the notion. He and Boyce were being paid to allow the gang to do business, and on the side, discourage the competition. They’d done their job.
Oh well, as long as the payments resumed soon, it wasn’t really a problem. Especially since Saxton had searched Norton’s room and found nearly twenty grand in cash. Split in two, it was enough money for Boyce to pull himself out of debt, and for Saxton to pay off a good chunk of his home upgrade bills. Not bad, for an unexpected bonus.
After eating, Saxton returned to his backyard and sat listening to the quiet gurgle of the hot tub. He kept on turning over the issues surrounding Norton’s death, trying to reach conclusions. For the time being, none of the dots connected. What motivation would Jason Loohan have to kill Norton? None that Saxton could guess at. The more probable scenario involved the Diablos Sierra, but they were nothing but street punks, and Norton’s death was no doubt done by a skilled hitter. He was almost positive none of the Mexicans who’d been hanging out at the Pine Mountain Apartments were capable of such a job.
Screw it, then. He stamped out his cigarette and went back inside. At least one thing was clear: Saxton’s job was to find Norton’s murderer. He was being paid by the Nevada PD, as well as Vic Severino, to do so. Time to quit chasing ghosts in his mind, and go to work.
Saxton showered and dressed in creased slacks and a beige sports coat. He spun the barrel of his .38 and snapped the revolver into the holster on his ribcage, and at eight sharp pulled up in front of Dave Boyce’s doublewide trailer. He honked the horn twice and waited.
A minute later he honked again, and when Boyce didn’t appear, Saxton shut off the ignition with a curse. An impatient frown taking hold on his face, he climbed from his car and walked to the front door. It was definitely time for Boyce to get himself a set of wheels, even if all he could afford was a freaking scooter, maybe like the kind they rented out to teenagers who zipped around South Lake Tahoe all summer long.
Saxton pounded on the aluminum frame of the screen door, the clattery thumps loud in the quiet morning. The neighboring units in the mobile home park were still, apparently inhabited by people who didn’t wake and leave for their jobs at a normal hour.
“Come on, Dave,” he said, knocking again, the sound reverberating against the metal siding. Saxton stood on the concrete porch, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Then he blew out his breath, swung open the screen door, and turned the knob of the front door. It was unlocked. As he pushed it open a few inches, a tiny current of concern pulsed in his chest.
“Dave!” he shouted. He reached in and flicked on the light switch. The doorway opened directly to the main room, the couch, coffee table, and easy chair nondescript and utilitarian. When Boyce didn’t answer, Saxton stepped inside, the skin around his eyes tight as he slowly scanned the room. Down the hallway, the door to the bathroom was open, the light off and no sound from the shower. His fingers slid beneath his coat and released the holster snap holding his revolver. Gun in hand, he moved down the hallway. With each step his muscles grew tighter, until he finally stood at the door to the single bedroom. He banged on it with his fist.
“Goddammit, Dave,” he said. He waited a long moment, then, standing aside the doorway with his back to the wall, he cracked opened the door and peeked into the room. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, then alarm flooded his body. He opened the door fully and stood transfixed.
The damage to Dave Boyce’s body was horrific. He lay face down across the bed, his nude corpse torn with entrance wounds the size of nickels, blood everywhere, the sheets soaked, the walls splattered and trails of red running downward. His head was turned to reveal his profile, his face blank, one eye shot out, a fist-sized piece of skull hanging from his scalp to reveal the gray maw of his brains.
Saxton backed out of the room. He closed his eyes and leaned against the hallway wall and tried to control his breathing. A creeping surge of nausea rose in his throat, and he hurriedly walked outside into the sunlight. He went to his car and leaned against it. His fingers felt thick and insensate as he dialed 911.
“911 Emergency, who’s calling, please?”
“Cheryl, this is Pete Saxton. I’m at Dave Boyce’s place. He’s been shot to death.”
The woman began asking questions, just doing her job, and Saxton stayed on the line with her until the black and whites showed up.
“Jesus, Pete, what happened?” said one of the uniforms, a craggy, older cop who spoke incessantly about his grandkids and his plans to retire.
“Detectives on the way?” Saxton said.
“Yeah. Galanis and McMann.”
“Great.” Saxton studied the tops of his shoes. The only two cops in the department as corrupt as he was. Self-serving, without loyalty to anything but their bank accounts.
Within a minute an ambulance wailed down the street, followed by the Douglas County medical examiner and an unmarked sedan. Nick Galanis and his partner, McMann, whose first name Saxton couldn’t remember, climbed out of their car and ducked under the crime scene tape the uniforms had strung from one large pine to another, effectively boxing off the sidewalk and the porch of Boyce’s home. Galanis, six foot, one eighty, flashed a grin at Saxton. Totally inappropriate, but Galanis always grinned, regardless of the situation. Devastating, Saxton had once heard a female suspect describe his smile. The detective had a full head of curly black hair, never missed a day at the gym, and was campaigning for promotion to captain, the position still vacant after Old Cunningham had a heart attack and finally made official his retirement. For the time being, Galanis had been appointed as acting captain.
McMann, in contrast, was bald and squat and looked like a pig. He’d arrived in Nevada about a year ago, amid rumors of trouble with the Chicago PD. A recovering alcoholic, he attended meetings and often emitted a palpable aura of frustration and unhappiness with his sobriety. “Poor bastard’s got it bad,” Saxton once commented to Boyce, watching McMann suffer through a booze-soaked department party.
Saxton stood before the detectives. Galanis’s grin dissolved, his dark eyes scrutinizing.
“You all right, Pete? Why don’t you take a seat in your car while we go inside?”
“Okay,” Saxton said, not interested in Galanis’s disingenuous concern. He watched the two go into Boyce’s trailer, along with the ME, then opened the passenger door to his Ford and sat facing out, elbows on his knees. “Think,” he told himself. He closed his eyes and tried to calm hi
s nerves, but the nausea he’d been fighting suddenly flooded his mouth, and he spewed a bilious froth into the gutter. Coughing and spitting, he waved away an officer who approached, leaned back, and pressed his palms to his eyes.
He allowed himself five minutes, then rinsed his mouth with bottled water and grabbed a handful of mints from a tin container. Did Pete Saxton feel any personal grief his partner was dead? Not much, he had to admit. Nor was he concerned Dave Boyce’s absence would disrupt his arrangement with Severino. Instead, his angst was centered on one fact that was growing increasingly clear to him: Norton and Boyce were murdered by the same very competent killer, and Saxton was probably next on the list. If not for him being away from his home until two in the morning, he might well already be dead.
Shaking a cigarette from his pack, Saxton rose from the car and saw a crowd had begun to gather. A few trashy housewives, three teenagers with skateboards who should have been heading to school, and a man with a camera next to a woman writing on a notepad. Probably reporters from the Tahoe Daily Tribune. How’d they get here so goddamned fast? Some rubbernecking neighbor must have called them.
The reporter, a pudgy, thirtyish man, pointed the camera at Saxton. Blocking his face with his hand, Saxton ducked back into the Ford. In the rearview mirror, he saw the man snap a shot of the car, then begin walking up along the passenger side. The reporter grew larger as he neared the car door.
Saxton thrust the door open and jumped out, almost hitting the reporter, who stumbled back and raised his camera. The man’s face recoiled in shock when Saxton grabbed his forearm and twisted, bringing him to his knees.
“Let go of me. You can’t—”
“You’re interfering with police work.” Saxton pried the camera from the reporter’s sweaty fingers. “This will be returned to you after it’s been determined none of the photos will compromise our investigation.”
“I have every right to—”
“Invade my privacy?” Saxton snarled, blood pumping in his temples. He waved over two uniforms who’d just come out of Boyce’s place.
