Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “This citizen needs to be detained until we’re done here,” Saxton said. “Cuff him and stick him in a squad car. And tell the bitch over there to keep her distance or she’ll be joining him.”

  By that time, another half-dozen spectators had congregated on the sidewalk across the street, staring in rapt attention, as if they were virgins witnessing a live sex act.

  “Fucking ghouls,” Saxton said. “Tell Galanis I’ll be at my desk. I’m out of here.”

  • • •

  The squad room was empty and quiet. Saxton drank a can of soda and smoked and tried to anticipate what was to come. A cop killing was an event that would shake even the hardest veterans. The department’s reaction would no doubt be fueled by emotion. Everything would come under scrutiny. Standard operating procedures that sufficed in day-to-day investigations would be considered woefully inadequate. Arresting the party responsible for the fallen officer would dominate the lives of all ten detectives working for Douglas County. The fact Dave Boyce was not well liked was irrelevant—he was part of a sworn brotherhood that watched one another’s back. No one gets away with killing a cop. The intensity level would be cranked to full throttle.

  If an arrest wasn’t made promptly, it was likely the state police, or maybe even the FBI, would be brought in. That could prove disastrous. It didn’t take much to imagine the Pandora’s Box an outside police agency might crack open if they began poking around. At stake was not only Saxton’s career, but also Severino’s drug enterprise, which of course led right back to Saxton.

  Saxton stood abruptly, cursing as his knee hit the desk. He needed to go alert Severino of the shit storm brewing. If Severino was smart, he’d hunker down, pull the HCU boys off the street, maybe go on a long vacation. Saxton climbed into his Ford and swung out to the highway toward Pistol Pete’s, his foot mashed to the floorboard, the tires howling, the sedan pulling ahead like a racehorse out of the gate. As he neared the casino, he dialed Severino’s untraceable cell.

  “We need to talk,” Saxton said, bouncing into the parking lot. The black glass of the casino hotel looked superheated in the sun. Beyond the building the lake was white, as if bleached of color.

  “Make it around three,” Severino said.

  “Now. I’m outside the casino. Meet me at the back door.”

  “It better be important.”

  Saxton hung up and walked across the black asphalt to the Employees Only door. It opened, and he slipped inside, silently following Severino down the hallway to his office.

  “What now?” Severino said, sitting behind his desk.

  Saxton looked around the windowless room as if for the first time, and something about it seemed surreal to him. He blinked, then turned his eyes to Severino.

  “My partner is dead. Dave Boyce was murdered last night. It looks like it was done by the same guy who killed Norton.”

  After a moment, Severino said, “Are you sure?”

  “He was torn apart in his bedroom by multiple large caliber rounds. Same as Norton was. Ballistics will confirm it by the end of the day.”

  Severino cleared his throat and clicked his pen a few times before setting it down.

  “How do you see it?” he said.

  “The whole situation is a three-ring rat-fuck is how I see it,” Saxton said. “I think someone’s decided to shut HCU down. Someone who’s not afraid to kill a cop. Guess who’s probably next on the hit list? Me. After that, maybe you.”

  Severino pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “Do you need a drink, Pete?”

  “No. I’ve got to get back to the squad room. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

  “Do you think we underestimated the Mexicans?”

  “It’s possible. We’re gonna be all over them like stink on shit, I can tell you that.”

  “Good.”

  “Now, listen to me,” Saxton said. “If we don’t make an arrest in a hurry, the state police or even the FBI might be brought in. If that happens, things could get out of control.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they may find links back to you. Is that clear enough?”

  “That would be unfortunate. For both of us.”

  “You’re goddamned right it would be. If I were you, I’d say it would be a good time for a vacation. Like maybe something overseas, until this blows over.”

  Severino’s fingers stroked his jaw, the dark grain of his skin shining in the florescent lighting.

  “You make any progress on finding Jason Loohan?” he said.

  “No. I don’t see how he’s a player in this—not as a suspect in Norton or Boyce’s murder, anyway.”

  “Hmm.” Severino stared at his desktop for a long moment, then raised his eyes.

  “When you found Norton dead, did you find any money?”

  “Yeah, a couple hundred bucks,” Saxton said. He knew Severino would eventually ask this, and he wasn’t surprised the question came at a time when Severino thought he could catch him off balance. But Saxton was too smart to fall into that trap.

  “That’s it, huh?” Severino’s eyes probing the lie.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Severino dismissed the question with a brief shrug, then stood and opened the office door, signaling the meeting was over. When Saxton passed by him on the way out, Severino said, “I don’t mean to insult your intelligence here, just a little reminder. You’re a cop, and I work at a casino. We’ve never heard of each other.”

  • • •

  Arriving back at Douglas County police headquarters, Saxton could feel the stress level as soon as he walked in the building. There were the murmured remarks, “Sorry about your partner,” “How you holding up,” “Boyce was a good cop,” and so on, but once the obligatory sympathies were dispensed with, the somber mood was replaced with an angry tension. The squad room was now half-full with scowling detectives, pacing and hovering near Saxton’s desk. Saxton sat stone-faced, waiting for Galanis and McMann to return from the crime scene. They arrived fifteen minutes later, Galanis shifty-eyed, and McMann looking like he wanted a drink. Galanis went into the office he’d moved into the week previous and motioned at Saxton. Saxton followed him, shutting the door and taking a seat.

  “Pete, I need you to tell me what you and Dave were working on, who you think might have done this,” Galanis said, his handsome face full of concern and empathy. Saxton stared back, knowing the face was full of shit. Behind his appearance, Galanis was a man who cared about only one thing—his own bottom line. He was a master chameleon, able to shift his personality instantly to manipulate situations in his favor. Around the squad his deceptive nature was tolerated, because over time, The Snake, as he was sometimes called, had proven himself a good detective.

  Saxton measured his words carefully. He knew Galanis was aware he and Boyce had been taking drug money, in the same way Saxton knew Galanis was getting paid off by a prostitution ring, and was also involved in illegitimate building permits. He decided to play it upfront, for the moment.

  “A gang of Mexicans have been ramping up their drug dealing. Boyce and I were discouraging them.”

  “So, you think they put a hit on Boyce?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Kill a cop, just for doing his job?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Galanis turned and stared out the window, where a field had once been cleared for construction and was now overgrown with weeds. Beyond the field a car made its way up a road carved into the pine-covered mountainside that overlooked the police complex.

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Galanis said, turning back to Saxton. “A drug cartel assassination. You familiar with the cartel killings in Mexico?”

  “Not in detail.”

  “It’s an unholy mess down there. Whole families in their bedrooms, waxed with automatic weapons. The unlucky ones are tortured first, sometimes to death. You live in Juarez or Tijuana, and you don’t cooperate with the cartels, you go to sleep and maybe y
ou never wake up.”

  “Yeah, I heard it’s bad.”

  “We’re assuming at this point the same man killed Joe Norton and Dave Boyce. What’s the connection, Pete?”

  “Norton was a drug runner,” Saxton said.

  “Was he doing business with the Mexicans?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he pissed them off.”

  “I think it’s likely.”

  “Why?”

  Saxton shrugged. “It’s a dirty business.”

  A small smile began on Galanis’s face. “Okay, Pete, I understand. But the main priority here is catching the killer of your partner. Regardless of anything else, we must do that, and do it quick.”

  Saxton forced a smile in return. “I think we’re on the same page, Nick.”

  “Good. Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to send three SWAT men to your house today. One will take position in the vacant house across the street from yours. The other two will wait in your house. As for you, I want you out on the street, do what you always do, business as usual. Go home at a typical hour. Keep your curtains drawn, and turn out the lights when you’d usually go to bed.”

  “You think he’s coming for me tonight?”

  “Boyce last night, Norton the night before. I’d say you’re next on the list.”

  Saxton fought the urge to jump up and backhand the snide smile off Galanis’s face. So cavalier, the way Galanis concluded Saxton was marked for death. And so quickly The Snake seemed to have decided on a plan that, if it worked, would assure his permanent promotion to captain. It would be the perfect political score for him, orchestrating the capture of the cop killer within twenty-four hours. Of course, it didn’t concern him in the least that Saxton would be used as bait. Galanis seemed to know Saxton had no other options, unless he wanted to resign and flee out of town.

  “Hey, look,” Galanis said, “we’re going to get this scumbag. If he doesn’t come tonight, we’ll find another angle. One way or another, we’ll get him. No one kills one of us and walks. No way. And after it’s over, I’ll help you sort out this drug dealing problem.”

  Of course you will, Saxton thought bitterly. Dave Boyce’s body was barely cold, and Galanis was already angling to move in on the action.

  19

  “Yes,” Stuart Gold said, rising from his desk and clapping his hands. The scene he’d just written was perfect. For the last three days, he’d been in a state of creative bliss, the thoughts coming so rapidly he could hardly type them before even more tantalizing ideas occurred to him. The theatrical storyline he’d nearly finished was one that would appeal across all cultures, to the old and young, the rich and the poor. Everyone would love the story of a humble girl from an impoverished background hitting the big time. But the story was not simply about a poor Latina becoming a star. It was much bigger than that. Stuart Gold’s masterpiece spoke of the magical essence of talent, how its power could transcend the most dire circumstances and bring joy to the world. His passionate presentation of this theme would touch the very core of humanity.

  This would be the vehicle to launch him back to the forefront of the Las Vegas entertainment world, and then beyond, to New York and London. And of course, Teresa Perez was the centerpiece.

  Stuart paced around the study of the home he’d rented, a three-bedroom ski-in/ski-out chalet. From his back deck, a gentle slope led to a shutdown chairlift that rose over two thousand feet into the Sierras. During the winter, the area would be crowded with skiers and snowboarders, but for now it was deserted. Most of the snowpack near the base of the lift was gone, revealing glades of grass and dirt. Up higher, below the towers and steel cables, wide fields of melting snow sparkled under a sun high in the pastel sky.

  Two days ago he’d proposed to Teresa she record a demo disk, a simple compilation of pop songs. It was required at this early stage of her career. She’d responded enthusiastically, but was concerned that rehearsing the numbers at her paper-walled apartment would disturb the neighbors. He told her she could use the theatre at Pistol Pete’s, and she seemed grateful. But when he woke the following morning, sipping a nonfat caramel latte and enjoying the view of the lake from his second-story balcony, he recalled overhearing her cell phone conversation earlier in the week. Something about some people causing trouble at her apartments. Though he wasn’t prone to snoopiness, Stuart decided to check out the Pine Mountain complex. Just a quick drive-by, to get a sense of where his prized client lived.

  When he saw the graffiti, junker cars, and barred windows, he felt the beginnings of a mild panic attack. What would it be like here when darkness fell and predators roamed the street? As if they had heard his thoughts, three young gangbangers emerged from an apartment, their jeans baggy, bandanas low on their foreheads. They stared at the spectacled white man in his maroon Mercedes, the undisguised hostility in their eyes sending stabs of anxiety through Stuart’s heart. He cranked his steering wheel and turned out of the cul-de-sac and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  When he’d arrived back at the safety of his chalet, he mixed himself a gin fizz. He almost never drank in the morning, but he needed something to calm his nerves. The thought of Teresa coming home at night to that nasty and squalid neighborhood was no more acceptable than the concept of an infant playing on the freeway. Every night she stayed there posed unacceptable risk. He was surprised she’d not yet been raped. Or worse. Something must be done about her living situation, and immediately.

  Stuart adjusted his glasses and called Teresa, his fingers nervously tapping his knee. When she didn’t pick up after three redials, he left her a message. By the time she called him back, around noon, he worked himself into somewhat of a dither.

  “Young lady, as your manager and agent, I insist you take my calls. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m just fine, Stuart. What are you worried about?”

  “Listen, darling, please don’t be offended by this, but the apartments where you live, they are atrocious. I am not at all comfortable with you living in such a dangerous place.”

  “I live there with my younger brother,” Teresa said. “It is what we can afford.”

  “Well, if money’s the issue, then I will help you. At a minimum, you need a safe, comfortable home.”

  Teresa hesitated. All her life she had lived with the threat of violence. In the remote village where she was born, she’d leaned how to deal with unwanted attention. Once she had sliced open the face of a would-be suitor who got drunk and demanded sex. She was fifteen at the time. A year later an older man tried to rape her, and she’d grabbed his testicles and pulled so hard she heard something pop. She learned to identify trouble with a glance and was proactive in steering away from it. When that was not enough, she was quite willing to fight. Living in this manner had become second nature to her.

  Moving forward, might it no longer be necessary to stay constantly on guard? Teresa knew stars lived in opulent settings, where the greatest threats were their own egos. She envisioned nothing as grandiose for herself. A safe, comfortable home, as Stuart put it, would be paradise enough. Some place away from the desperation and violence and cruelty that had always been present in her life. Perhaps this was a privilege that came with the recognition of her talent. If so, wouldn’t it make sense to embrace it?

  Though the answer seemed obvious, Teresa felt a tugging reluctance. Maybe it was because she believed accepting charity would create an obligation on her part. Or maybe it was just a fundamental, subconscious mistrust of a lifestyle different from what she had always known. Change is scary, she admitted to herself. But she also recognized she must continue moving forward, away from her past.

  “Stuart, if I were to move, Juan must come with me.”

  “Of course, of course I realize that. You are his legal guardian.”

  “Any financial help you give me, we must keep track. I consider it a loan, and I’ll repay you once I can.”

  “And I would expect nothing less from you. For n
ow, though, I suggest you move into my home. I think you’ll find it splendid, and I will not accept a penny from you.”

  “Your home? Oh, we couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? I have more room here than I could ever use. You and Juan can have the upstairs bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. You’ll have plenty of privacy, I assure you.”

  “But we wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Teresa, the most important thing is your safety. If you’re not comfortable here, we’ll find you another place. But you should not spend another night in your apartment. You have far too much to lose.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, Stuart.”

  “Why don’t you come on over and take a look around? I’m only five minutes away.”

  Teresa was in her bedroom, where her brother couldn’t hear the conversation.

  “Okay,” she said. “Give me directions. I’ll get Juan and come over.”

  • • •

  Juan was suspicious when Teresa said she wanted him to meet her manager.

  “Right now?” he said, looking up from his homework. It had been a short day at school, and he was looking forward to finishing his assignments and relaxing before the evening shift at the restaurant.

  “Yes,” Teresa said.

  “What for?”

  “He said he has a surprise for us.” It was a truthful comment, in a way. She could never lie to her brother.

  Juan knew in an instant Teresa was hiding something. He considered himself a good judge of people, and Teresa was especially easy to read. But he also trusted her, so he decided to play along. He clicked shut his binder and set it aside.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  They drove off in Teresa’s pickup, crossing over Pioneer Trail and then onto the road bordering South Lake Tahoe’s massive ski resort. A steep, well-paved street led into a neighborhood adjacent to the slopes, where the homes were built on lots that had been carved into the mountainside. As they climbed the grade, Juan noticed most of the structures were recently built, some still in the final phases of construction. He looked at the stone and natural wood facades, the huge windows over redwood balconies, and he wondered at the mysterious forces that allowed some to reside in such splendor, while others were relegated to the cheapest and most run-down living quarters.