STATELINE: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “Dan, what’s up?” he said, opening the door. He was wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

  “You guys rested up?” I said. “You ready to go do some drinking?”

  “Shit, I’m dying for a beer,” Whitey said. The room smelled like pot, and his bong was smoldering on the nightstand. “Brado’s in the shower, he just woke up. I’ve been up for about half an hour. I’m freakin’ starving, I’m ready to split and get some fast food. You want a bong hit, man?”

  “No, thanks. But let’s go out and I’ll buy you guys dinner.”

  “No way!” Brad yelled, walking out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

  “Yup,” I said. “I’m up a hundred at the casinos. Come on, get your asses dressed. I’m buying.”

  “Right on,” Whitey said. They threw on their clothes and we were on the street in two minutes flat. The Lazy 8 was one of a number of cheap hotels on the California side of the state line, across from the casinos. We crossed the street over to Buffalo Bill’s Casino, which had a good all-night restaurant. The joint was raging with a rowdy Saturday night crowd. Rock n’ roll blared from the speakers, blending with the ring of slot machines, the clatter of dice, and the buzz of cards being shuffled. A couple of girls in tight jeans were trying to dance at the craps table and knocked a guy’s beer all over him. We wedged our way through the masses over to the restaurant. I steered us to a table toward the back, away from the noise.

  “Brad, you’re looking a little better than you did earlier today,” I said.

  “Shit, man, I felt my temperature shoot up, and I was pouring sweat, and then it started going black all around the edges.” He waved his hands around his head. “I felt like I was gonna freakin’ die.”

  “That’s because you’re a pansy,” Whitey said.

  “But that sleep did me right,” he went on. “I’m fine now, just a little hung over, and I need to eat. But give me a few beers, and I’ll be a hundred percent.”

  The waitress came by, and I ordered a pitcher of beer and a round of tequila. Brad ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and onion rings, and Whitey went for a pepperoni pizza with a Mexican fiesta plate as an appetizer.

  “No food for you, Dan?” Brad said.

  “I’m just drinking. You ever catch up with your buddy Osterlund?”

  “No. He’s probably still at Caesar’s. He had a room there,” Whitey said. “I haven’t heard from him. Shit, can you believe Bascom’s dead? I mean, on his freaking wedding day? I wonder how he croaked.”

  “Bascom took off with Osterlund from the bachelor party last night, huh?”

  “They split after that stripper told Osterlund to fuck off,” Brad said. “Osterlund got it in his brain he wanted a blow job, and if he didn’t get one last night he’s either still looking or blowing himself.”

  “What about Bascom? Did he want to get laid too, the night before his wedding?”

  “I think Osterlund gave him a couple lines, and Bascom was probably into it after that,” Whitey said.

  “That core can make you freakin’ horny,” Brad added. “I had a rod the whole time the strippers were there.”

  “Osterlund was probably looking for one whore for him and Bascom to tag team,” Whitey said. “He’s into that kind of shit.”

  “What, you mean two on ones?”

  “Yeah, that, and also he likes to watch and jerk off. I’m serious, he’s perverted. Did you ever hear the story about him and Wayne Majors?”

  “Yeah, yeah, check it out,” Brad interjected. He was on his second beer, and his shot glass was empty. His eyes were bright, his voice energetic.

  “Dude, it’s my story,” Whitey protested.

  “No, come on, let me tell him,” Brad said. The waitress brought the appetizers and Whitey started eating, so Brad jumped into the story.

  “Get this. Remember Wayne had that girlfriend with the big tits? She wasn’t that good-looking, but she had a nice body and a pair of jugs that wouldn’t quit. I don’t remember her name, this was maybe a year ago, but Osterlund and Wayne and this chick are sitting around one afternoon getting wasted, and Wayne and her decide they wanna screw. So Osterlund begs them to let him watch, but she won’t go for it.” Brad grabbed a quesadilla from Whitey’s plate, folded it in half, and shoved it in his mouth. I waited for him to continue.

  “So anyway, they finally agree to let Osterlund watch from outside, in the backyard. So he goes outside, and Wayne’s banging her like a screen door in a hurricane, and Osterlund’s looking in the window, spanking his monkey in the backyard in broad daylight, and then…” He paused to finish his beer.

  “And then, Osterlund disappears all the sudden, and the next thing you know he bursts into the bedroom! He’s stark naked with a hard-on, and they’re yelling at him to get out, but he goes right up to them and shoots his load all over her. And some of it even gets on Majors!” Brad laughed loudly, pounding the table.

  “It’s true,” Whitey said between mouthfuls. “Remember Hanna? She was this chick I used to go out with. She was totally cool, she was a nurse. And Osterlund is trying to convince me to let him video us in the rack. I’m like, ‘You gotta be kidding, there’s no way.’ But, dude, I’m telling ya, he gets off on shit like that.”

  “Yeah, Whitey, I’d really get off seeing your big white ass humping away in a porno,” Brad said. Whitey flipped him the bird, but upside down, waving his middle finger back and forth limply.

  “Osterlund sounds like a real piece of work,” I said. “I wonder where he’d go looking for hookers.”

  “He’d probably call one of those escort services. Those broads will polish your helmet if you can afford it,” Brad said.

  The waitress brought out their main courses and another pitcher. They dug in, eating and drinking like medieval lords. I didn’t want Brad or Whitey to get the impression I had more than a casual curiosity about Bascom’s death. I wanted to talk to Osterlund as soon as could find him, and my goal was to catch him off guard. I had no doubt the police were looking for him as well, as he was the most obvious potential witness; everyone at the bachelor party saw him leave with Bascom. But I thought there was a good chance he was either lying low or on the run, so maybe the cops hadn’t interrogated him yet. I imagined he would have already left town if his truck weren’t impounded. He was probably cursing his bad luck at having it towed. Bad luck by your own design, dude.

  I tried to imagine different scenarios of what might have happened in the hotel room the night Sylvester Bascom was murdered. Suppose Bascom and Osterlund had been there with a hooker or two, and maybe Bascom was getting laid and Osterlund was watching. Then she pulls out a knife for some reason, say she’s a nut case, and stabs him. But John Bascom said Sylvester had been beaten as well as stabbed, so that didn’t make sense. If he was beaten, I assumed it was by a man, possibly Osterlund. Maybe Osterlund beat him and stabbed him because they were arguing about who was going to do what to the prostitute. But what about the peephole? If Osterlund drilled it, he probably planned on watching Bascom get laid. Maybe Bascom didn’t want him to watch. Would Osterlund stab him to death for that?

  My thinking was all based on the assumption there were actually one or more hookers in the room. I needed to see the coroner’s report on Sylvester Bascom. It would help to know if he had sex that night. Also, I wanted to know the extent of his injuries, including the specifics on the knife wounds.

  The waitress started clearing the plates and asked if we wanted anything else. I handed her my credit card.

  “Thanks for dinner, buddy. That’s totally cool,” Brad said.

  I signed the bill when the waitress returned, then left Brad and Whitey at the table. Outside, the cold night air was harsh compared to the warmth of the casino. I shoved my hands deep in my pockets and walked back across the street to the Lazy 8, where my car waited patiently in the dark parking lot, like a faithful old dog.

  8

  It was past eleven when I dialed Caesar’s and asked for the
room of Sven Osterlund. They connected me, but there was no answer. I dialed Edward Cutlip next. He sounded groggy when he answered, and I thought I may have woken him.

  “Edward, I need to see the coroner’s report,” I said. “Did you talk to Bascom after he got back from the coroner?”

  “Yes, I did. He looks like he’s aged ten years. Obviously this whole thing is hard on him beyond description. The coroner did a preliminary exam on the body, but I don’t know any details. He’s going to come in tomorrow afternoon and do the formal autopsy.”

  “It’s important for me to get a copy of his report right away. Actually, it’d be better for me to just go to the autopsy and get the facts on the spot.”

  “You, you want to go to the autopsy?” Edward asked. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “The sooner I know what I’m working with, the better. I need you to arrange it so I can be there.”

  “It sounds highly irregular,” he said. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Bascom to use his influence.”

  “Fine, if that’s what it takes. Have you heard anything on Sven Osterlund?”

  “Osterlund? No, why?”

  “Do you have any idea if the police are talking to him, or holding him?”

  “No, not to my knowledge.”

  “Okay. Look, I’ll talk to you in the morning. You can come to the autopsy with me after lunch if you’d like. I’ll take you out for Italian food.”

  “Very funny.”

  We hung up, and I thought for a minute about Edward Cutlip. Could he stand to benefit by Sylvester’s death? With Sylvester out of the way, might Cutlip improve his position at Bascom Lumber? He didn’t seem to be the scheming type, but I couldn’t rule it out.

  I called Caesar’s and again asked for the room of Sven Osterlund. There was no answer. I tried Chris Dickerson and Ron Yamoto, the two groomsmen Edward knew by name. Dickerson didn’t answer, but Yamoto did.

  I introduced myself and asked if he knew Osterlund’s whereabouts. He said he didn’t and referred to Osterlund as “that weird guy.”

  I sighed, headed to 7-Eleven, and bought a twenty-ounce coffee and a copy of the Reno Gazette. Then I drove back to the Lazy 8 and found a dark spot across the street in another hotel parking lot that had a clear view of Brad and Whitey’s room. I backed into the spot, grabbed my sleeping bag out of the trunk, and made myself comfortable in the Nissan’s passenger seat. My theory was Osterlund would likely reconnect with his pals sooner rather than later.

  Around two in the morning I dozed off, then woke at 3:00 A.M., shivering, and drove out for another coffee. I returned and continued watching. By eight the sun was shining, and people were coming out of their rooms. It looked like it would be a nice day to ski, I thought fleetingly. I moved my car onto the side street off the main highway. Though I could no longer see Brad’s room, if Osterlund were to show up at the Lazy 8, he’d have to drive, or walk, past me.

  I called Caesar’s on my cell and once more asked for Osterlund’s room, but there was no answer. My eyes were sore and my mouth felt gritty. I was just about ready to head to my room at the Lakeside when I decided to try something. I dialed San Jose directory service and asked for Zelda Thomas, Osterlund’s mother’s name. There was no listing. I tried Zelda Osterlund, with no success. I asked if any Osterlunds were listed in the San Jose area; the operator gave me the names and numbers of four listings. I called each number asking for Zelda, and on the third try, to the residence of Jane Osterlund, a woman’s voice said, “Who’s calling?”

  “Ma’am, this is the Silverado County Sheriff’s Office. We have a white Chevy truck with license plate ‘PSYCHIC’ in our impound lot, and we’re trying to locate the owner.”

  “That’s my son’s, goddammit,” she said. “Why are you calling so early?”

  “We charge for storage by the day, ma’am. If he picks it up this morning he’ll save himself the daily lot fee.”

  “Well, I talked to him yesterday, and I’m wiring him the money later today, but he probably won’t get it until tomorrow.”

  “We also take checks and credit cards,” I said.

  “Listen to me,” she said, her voice rising. “Do not, I repeat, do not take a check from him. If he’s stupid enough to write the cops a bad check, and you’re stupid enough to take it, then god help us all. And he better not be using a credit card. He just declared personal bankruptcy in January.”

  “Okay, thanks for your help. We’ll look for him tomorrow.”

  “If he doesn’t show up, please call me,” she said.

  “Why wouldn’t he show up?”

  “Who knows?” she said, exasperated. “He’s unpredictable.”

  She hung up, and I drove back up 50 to the Lakeside. I was getting the impression Osterlund was a son only a mother could love, and maybe even that was a stretch. I mentally ticked off what I knew about him: drug problems, reckless driver, falsified handicapped parking permit, sexually perverted, violent tendencies, and bankrupt. His life sounded like ten pounds of shit stuffed in a five-pound bag.

  I rubbed my eyes. It was typical behavior for criminals to keep close ties to their mothers. When everyone else they knew abandoned them, they’d always go back to dear old mom for money. It was a pathetic but predictable tendency. I frowned as I remembered I hadn’t talked to my mother for a month or so. She was probably disappointed; I’d try to call her later, when I had time.

  I lay down on my hotel bed and slept for an hour, clearing some of the cobwebs from the long, uncomfortable night in my car. In the back of my mind I knew I had to call Wenger, but I decided to put it off until later in the day. It was ten A.M. I punched in Edward’s number on my cell and told him I wanted to talk to him and Bascom in person. He sounded distracted, but agreed and said to come on up to their suite.

  When I arrived, John Bascom himself opened the door. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped. His voice was barely audible when he told me to come in. We went into the connected room, where Edward was typing on a computer.

  “We’re making arrangements for the funeral,” Bascom said. “What have you found out so far?”

  “Sylvester left the bachelor party around ten o’clock with Sven Osterlund. Sylvester checked into the room at the Crown at ten-thirty. I spent all last night trying to find Osterlund. I’ll try to track him down today.”

  “The reason you couldn’t find him is he spent most of the night at the police station,” Bascom said.

  “We just found out ourselves,” Edward added before I could say anything. “The detectives picked him up and took him in for questioning and grilled him most of the night. They think he knows more than he’s saying, but they don’t have enough to charge him with anything.”

  I opened my notebook. “Who are detectives on the case?”

  Edward handed me two cards, and I jotted down the names: Don Raneswich and Paul Iverson.

  “What’s Osterlund’s story?” I said.

  Edward and Bascom looked at each other. “You tell him,” Bascom mumbled.

  “Osterlund admits he and Sylvester went to the Crown. But he claims Sylvester called a hooker and went to the room by himself to wait for her. Osterlund said he left the Crown at that time and went back to his room at Caesar’s.”

  “It sounds like bullshit,” I said. “I learned a lot about Osterlund last night. He’s a guy with a lot of bad habits, to put it lightly. Mr. Bascom, I’m curious about how Sylvester became friends with Osterlund. It seems like an unlikely match.”

  “That’s a good question. I think they’d only known each other for a year, maybe less. The only thing I ever heard was Osterlund’s mother is Zelda Thomas, that nutty psychic. Other than that, I don’t know.”

  “If the cops find Osterlund’s prints in the room, they can charge him with obstruction and hold him, and maybe he’ll talk,” I said.

  “It doesn’t look good,” Edward said. “They have a couple smudged, partial prints, but it’s not much.”


  “Do the detectives have any leads on the hooker?”

  “They’re working on it,” Bascom said, “but if Osterlund’s full of shit, who knows if there even was a hooker?”

  We were all silent for a moment. “I’m gonna find Osterlund and see what I can get out of him,” I said. “Obviously he knows more than he’s admitting. He may even be your son’s murderer. But he didn’t break under the police interrogation, so I’ll have to see what I can do to get him to talk.”

  “That’s what I’m paying you for,” Bascom said.

  “Edward, am I set to go with the coroner?”

  “The autopsy is at two o’clock,” he said. “The coroner wasn’t particularly happy about it, but agreed you could be there after certain influences were applied.”

  “Certain influences?”

  “I told you I’m well connected, Reno,” Bascom said.

  “I see. How long do you plan to stay here in Tahoe?”

  “At least another couple days, maybe longer depending on how the case goes,” he said, his voice drifting away.

  I paused, then said, “Mr. Bascom, I’m sorry I haven’t already said so, but I want to extend my sympathies for your loss.”

  Bascom’s eyes met mine briefly. “Thank you,” he said.

  Edward followed me out into the hall. “These detectives don’t know about your involvement. Are you planning on telling them?”

  “Not unless I have a reason to.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I pass on your invitation for lunch and the autopsy.” He smiled weakly.

  “Yeah, you’re missing out on memories that could last a lifetime.” I was trying to kid him, but he didn’t laugh.

  I took the elevator down to the lobby, almost walked outside, then turned around and picked up the courtesy phone on the wall. I called the front desk and asked for Julia’s room. She answered promptly.