by Dave Stanton
Just as we pulled up, my cell rang. Marcus Grier.
“I hope you’re sitting down,” he said, his voice quiet and solemn. “Dave Boyce was found shot to death this morning.”
“Oh, my.”
“Looks to be by the same person who killed Joe Norton.”
“Is South Lake Tahoe PD investigating?”
“No, not yet anyway. It happened in Nevada, and we’ve been instructed to lay low for now.”
“What do you make of it, Marcus?”
I heard him take a deep breath. “I think Boyce was involved in things for his own personal interest.”
“That’s putting it diplomatically.”
“It was the work of a professional,” Grier said. “Probably someone hired by the Diablos Sierra gang.”
“That’s as good a theory as any. But here’s another angle—I heard Loohan had gone with Norton to score some drugs down near the border recently.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s involved somehow.”
“I’d love to interrogate him, but our APB turned up nothing. We ran a complete electronic scan—no ATM activity, credit card charges, nothing. Not even a blip.”
“Tell you what—if I catch him, you’ll be the first I call.”
“Do me a favor, would you, Dan? Try to keep him alive.”
Grier hung up, and I told Cody of Boyce’s murder as we walked into the common.
He listened with his head cocked at an angle. “I didn’t like that guy anyway,” was his only comment.
The picnic bench in the center was unoccupied. We stood against a wall and surveyed the area. A pair of bandana-wearing cholos appeared at the far corner of the common and eyed us sullenly.
“Shall we interview them?” Cody said.
“Sounds like a good way to get shot.”
“Looks like they’re playing it low key to me. What have we got to lose?”
“What do you want to say to them? Sorry for stomping your ass the other day, can you help us find this guy we’re looking for?”
“Let’s tell them Loohan is part of HCU.”
“Do me a favor, would you?”
“Yeah?”
“Go easy. I’ve got enough problems.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll turn on the old Gibbons charm.”
“Oh, that’s a relief.”
We walked toward the two gangbangers. I smiled and waved as we approached.
“We ain’t breakin’ no laws. What chu want?” said Cholo number one, leaning with his foot against the stucco wall, his eyes like knives against his brown skin.
“We’re cool here,” Cody said. “We ain’t cops.”
“Maybe you’re dead, homes,” said the second gangbanger, younger, his body like a whip. “You just don’t know it yet.”
“No one lives forever,” I said, trying to maintain my casual smile. “I heard you’ve been having trouble with some bad cops and white trash gangbangers. We’re trying to put them out of business. So maybe we got some common interest here.”
They exchanged glances, then one said smirked and said, “You think we need your help?”
“You never know,” I said. I pulled a picture of Loohan from my pocket.
“This dude is with the white boys. We want to take him off the street.”
They studied the picture, then the younger one said, “We see him, we’ll take him off.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Yeah,” said the older one. “He’s been around.”
“Really? When?”
“Yesterday.” He handed the sheet of paper back to me.
“We think he might have been involved in two murders,” Cody said. “Just happened. Couple guys, pumped full of lead in their bedrooms. One was one of the cops giving you a bad time.”
The older one didn’t change expression, but his buddy grinned, his mouth full of silver caps.
“He had nothin’ to do with that shit, homes.”
“Who did?”
They shrugged, both now smiling. Cody lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke from the shade into the sunlight.
“Keep it real, boys,” he said, and we turned and walked away.
“You know what I’m tempted to do?” Cody said as we strode out to the street. “Camp out at this joint and wait for Loohan. I can’t believe he was here yesterday. Come on,” he said, pacing toward the Perez unit. But the apartment was dark and nobody answered when Cody knocked.
“I’m gonna call her. Hang loose.”
“Let’s scout the perimeter,” I said. I took off toward the alley leading to the parking stalls, Cody following with his phone to his ear.
Sometimes you just look around, not knowing what you’re looking for, not knowing what you’ll find. A discarded receipt, a comment from a passerby, maybe the emergence of an idea hiding in the shadows of the mind. If Loohan was here, I wanted to retrace his steps and hope for a light bulb to click on. I wandered along the row of covered parking spots, looking at every car, searching for something that didn’t belong.
Never in my career had I failed to find a subject. Someone would always talk, or failing that, the subject would do something to reveal himself. Living off the grid was a bitch, and very few criminals had the discipline to do so.
I pulled myself up and peered into a Dumpster against a chain link fence. I scanned the bags of garbage, hoping for a vision. It didn’t come.
“Screw this,” I said. I jumped down and saw Cody had stopped near the entrance to the alley. He snapped his cell shut and I waited for him to come to where I kicked at the gravel.
“Teresa and Juan are moving today,” he said.
“What? Where to?”
“Her manager is leasing a fancy vacation pad near the ski resort. He told them they could move in rent-free. He was paranoid about Teresa living in this slum.”
“This manager, you think he’s legit?”
“Seems to be. At least he’s not trying to get into her pants. His shoes are the long-lasting variety.
“Huh?”
“He’s a little light in the loafers. Guy could give you change for a ten, all in threes.”
“Are they still coming over to barbeque tonight?”
“Yeah. Some of the theatre people are helping them move. They rented a U-Haul. They don’t have that much stuff—Teresa said she and Juan would be at your place by six.”
“Fine. Let’s go door to door. I want to see if anybody else here has seen Loohan.”
“I think it’s a good thing she’s getting out of here.”
“No doubt.”
We spent the next hour canvassing the residents like a couple of vacuum cleaner salesmen. Two people recognized Loohan’s picture. Neither could provide any insight into why he was here, or where he might be.
It was getting toward midafternoon when we left. I drove across town to the south side and picked up four rolls of sod and a narrow shovel I thought would make the job easier. I could feel the calories from the huge breakfast waiting to be burned.
At my house I changed into work jeans and my old tennis shoes and began cutting the sod into strips to fit the ruined portions of my lawn. I stripped off my shirt and let the sun beat on my back, sweat dripping off my nose and into the soil. Cody offered to help, but after a few minutes, he moved into the shade of the porch.
“You know, I think you want to do this on your own.”
“Why don’t you head out to the supermarket, pick up what we need for tonight?”
“Okay. See you in a bit.”
After he left I fell into a rhythm, measuring, cutting, stomping the new lawn in place. Muscles taut, dirt and sweat smeared across my skin, my mind went blank within the physical labor, my motions trance-like. At some point Cody returned, but I barely noticed. Finally, past five o’clock, I finished up, then swept the driveway. Not bad, I thought, checking out the results. Despite the exertion I felt relaxed and well rested.
As it turns out, being wel
l rested was a good thing. Because when I came out of the shower a little after six, Cody was pacing.
“They’re late. It’s not like Teresa. And she’s not answering her cell.”
21
Vic Severino was a man of habit, and apparently did not partake in hobbies or activities other than work. He spent most of every day in his office, in at nine and never leaving before eight P.M. He usually ate lunch and dinner alone, often a solitary figure at a restaurant. When Severino went home to his upscale condominium in a development off the lake, John Switton didn’t know what he did other than watch TV. Maybe pull the wings off flies.
Irish John had spent the last few days watching Severino, timing his routines. John would have preferred more time, at least seven days of careful surveillance. But Vinnie Tuma had now been missing for almost a week, and with each passing day, the probability of retaliatory action against John increased. If he had any doubt, it was erased yesterday when Severino told him he had nothing to worry about, there were others believed responsible for Vinnie’s disappearance. It was the kiss of death. In the moments leading to a whack, you always told your target everything was fine, all forgiven, no problem. Then the bullet.
At six P.M. John locked his office and left through the casino, waving good-bye to Carlo and Fat Denny, who were parked at the sports bar as usual. He drove home, had dinner with Robert, and sat staring out his back window. A slow hour passed. When the last hint of light faded from the skies, John got in his car and returned to Pistol Pete’s. Wearing coveralls and a cap, as if working for a utility company or perhaps a janitorial service, he parked near a steel door at the back of the building. The door, inconveniently located for most of the employees and locked to the general public, opened to a hallway, the nearest office being Vic Severino’s.
During the weekend the surrounding parking lot might have been crowded, but on a Tuesday evening in the slow season, it was free of cars. The black asphalt was unlit, marked sporadically by a handful of old growth pines protected by the forest service.
From the deep trunk of his Lincoln, John removed a large cardboard box, nearly big enough to hold a household dishwasher. He put the box on a dolly, backed through the door, and wheeled it down the hallway until he reached Severino’s office.
A quick glance up and down the hall, then John parked the dolly and twisted the doorknob. He stepped into the office and shut the door behind him.
Severino’s eyes snapped up from his computer screen, and he froze for a second and stared at John’s attire, at the latex gloves on his hands. Then he yanked open his desk drawer and ducked in a surprisingly fluid motion. But John was already in position, his feet planted firmly, his arms outstretched, both hands pointing a silenced .22 pistol. The first shot hit Severino in the shoulder, and as he twisted away, the second slammed into his ear, straight into the brain.
John hurried to where Severino lay collapsed in his chair and stuffed cotton into the wounds, then sealed the bloody holes with duct tape. The hollow-point .22 bullets had performed just as John planned. They flattened as they entered the body, losing velocity and lodging inside. The .22 was the perfect weapon for the job. Lethal and tidy. Not a spec of blood on the furniture or walls.
A couple deep breaths, then John went back to the office door. He put his hand on the knob, knowing if he was spotted now, his entire plan would collapse. This was a moment of great risk. He eased the door open and pulled the dolly inside, then locked the door. The hallway had been empty. His breathing steadied, but sweat was now threatening to soak through his armpits. Always the sweat.
John removed an acetylene-fueled cutting torch from the box and began searching for the safe he knew Severino used as a holding store for the money the casino laundered. He shut the desk drawer, seeing the .38 pistol his victim had futilely reached for. No safe under the desk. How about behind one of the framed posters hanging from the walls? John pushed on the one directly behind the desk. COURAGE—the willingness to overcome your fears, it said. Bingo. A wall safe, combination dial, a polished steel handle. John pulled on the handle, knowing it would not open.
But it did. He experienced a brief moment of flooding elation. Opening the safe with the torch would have taken at least ten minutes—John had bought a safe and practiced. Severino must have been in the process of moving money. A stroke of luck.
A green plastic bag was crammed into the interior. John pulled it out and quickly checked the contents. Bundles of cash. C-notes, twenties. Well over a hundred grand. Maybe a million. Hard to say. Five hundred grand, at least. More than he had hoped for. More luck. He’d celebrate later, if all went well.
Severino’s body had slid off the chair and lay crumpled on the floor. John dragged it by the arm, hoisted the corpse upright, and lowered it into the cardboard box. Severino settled to the bottom in the fetal position, his sightless eyes staring. The luster of the black marbles no more.
A knock on the door made John jump.
“Vic?” Vic, you in there?” Christ, it was Carlo.
Silent as a cat, John moved to the doorway. Carlo would have a key. If the door opened, John would have no choice but to shoot him.
Five seconds, John’s heart thumping like his son’s bass drums, sweat stinging his eyes. Then an envelope slid beneath the door, and John heard Carlo’s footfalls, and then silence.
John exhaled and put the .22 back in his pocket. He dropped the money and the torch in the box, on top of the body. Then he sealed the box with tape, pushed the swivel chair neatly under the desk, closed the safe, and made sure the framed poster was straight.
Sixty seconds. Sixty more lucky seconds was what he needed. He turned the lights off and eased the door open, then pushed the dolly out into the hall. Empty. Twenty feet of brightly lit hallway to the exit. Like swimming in mud.
But no one came, and the parking lot was dark, welcoming dark, and he curled his fingers under the box and effortlessly lifted it into his trunk. It wasn’t until later he marveled at how easy it was. Close to two hundred pounds, like it was nothing.
Irish John pulled away from Pistol Pete’s Casino for the last time, the cool lake air blowing in his open windows. He felt outside himself, as if in a different time and place. His life, Robert’s life, at stake. He’d done what he had to do, but it seemed surreal. So far, everything had gone like clockwork, so maybe he could pull it off. But he wasn’t done yet.
Ten minutes later he parked at the marina out on the keys and wheeled the box over fifty yards of tire-lined planks to a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser he’d rented. He stepped onto the boat and dropped an aluminum ramp from the gangway to the dock. Then he pulled the box aboard and eased out of the harbor. Except for the Tahoe Queen, visible miles to the north, there wasn’t another vessel on the water.
Heading for the middle of the lake, John listened to the deep hum of the motor and the water slapping rhythmically against the hull. This was the home stretch. Soon all the evidence would be gone, buried forever in the depths of Lake Tahoe.
If Irish John the Hammer felt a tinge of regret, it was for Sal Tuma, a man who had been there when John was desperate. Tuma would probably be stunned John betrayed him. A funny thing, the Mafia. All based on loyalty and a blood oath of silence. Allegiances sworn for life. But for what? The right to not work a steady job, to not earn an honest living. The right to steal, rob, cheat, and kill. All in the name of supporting your family. Nothing more important than family.
But in the end, it was always every man for himself. The list of traitors in recent years could fill a book. Thirty years in a federal pen, or testify and get witness protection. More and more were choosing the latter. Every mobster knew eventually it would come down to this, if they lived long enough.
John had quit the mob because he knew all the professed loyalty in the world meant nothing if he were dead or imprisoned. He had forged his own way, legitimately. Until fate stepped up and drew him back in. No denying fate. His actions today were his destiny, irrevocable and ine
vitable. He stared out over the bow, unblinking, his hands gripping the wheel. His life was the culmination of all he had done, and there was no escaping his past.
Thirty minutes out John shut off the throttles. The boat rocked gently in the swell, the lake like black ink. John dumped Severino’s limp body from the box and shoved it into a steel drum he’d bought a hundred miles away, at a yard in Sacramento. Guaranteed rust-free for thirty years. He dropped three thirty-five-pound steel plates on top of the body, then cut up the box and wedged the pieces in. Next, his coveralls, hat, and gloves. And the torch cutter, unused. Finally, he pounded the lid on and clamped it shut with vice grips. Lights twinkled on the distant shorelines. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the glitter of the casinos in Stateline rising above the black expanse.
He pushed the drum to the edge of the cruiser, and it took everything he had to tip it over the gunwale. It teetered for an instant, then fell into the water with a brief splash and vanished. John had read Lake Tahoe was one of the deepest lakes in the world.
Clutching the dark plastic bag full of cash, he started the motor and began back toward the south shore. After a minute he slowed, disassembled his pistol, and tossed the pieces in the water. That should be the last of it, he thought. No one would miss him or Vic Severino until the morning. By that time he and Robert would be on a plane under assumed names, heading for Europe to start anew. The Tumas and the police would be left grasping at thin air.
22
“Maybe they’re still moving,” I said, pulling a clean shirt over my head.
“No, she said it wouldn’t take long, and she always takes my calls.” Cody paced back and forth in my family room, his phone clenched in his fist.
“I’ll try Juan’s number,” I said, flicking open my cell. It went to voice mail.
“Put your shoes on and let’s go,” Cody said.
“To the apartments?”
“Yeah. And if she’s not there, we can try her new pad. She gave me the address.”
