STATELINE: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  “You have the wrong person. I haven’t been–”

  “What happened in that room?”

  She stared at me silently, her cheeks hollow, the skin tight on the bone. “Hey, Samantha,” I said, stepping toward her. “You think you can hide out here and this thing’s gonna go away? If you’re an accessory, you’ll be a hell of a lot better off if you cooperate. Worst case, you can probably cut yourself a good deal with the DA, maybe–”

  “Shut the fuck up,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You think I’m fucking stupid? I don’t know who you are or how you found me, but you have no right to come to where I work and start accusing me of whatever this bullshit is you’re talking about.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “The second guy in the room? The big dude with the flattop? He was fished out of Lake Tahoe Sunday with three bullets in his back. They say he was paralyzed but still alive when he was thrown in the lake. He drowned. Whoever’s responsible is dead serious, and I’d say as a witness you’re next on the list. You really want to live your life looking over one shoulder for the cops and the other for a murderer? That’s a lousy existence.”

  “You know, you’d be funny if you didn’t have your head so far up your ass,” she said. The eyes I’d been so enthralled with were no longer pretty. Her brow furrowed and crow’s feet etched the side of her face.

  “You’re a pretty tough broad, Samantha. But you’re being stupid. What do you think the cops are doing right now? They’re testing forensic evidence, and all they need is a person to match it with. I make a quick phone call, and the sheriff from Pahrump will be here in twenty minutes.”

  She flinched at that, then opened the curtains, stared out the window, and dragged deeply on a fresh cigarette. She stood with her hand on her hip, her back to me, and after a few minutes she glanced at her watch.

  “Your time’s going to be up soon,” she said.

  “Look,” I said, making my voice quiet, “I’m not the heat. I just want to find out who killed him. Tell me what I need to know, and I can forget I was here. You don’t have to let this thing destroy your life.”

  She turned toward me deliberately. “You gonna call the sheriff?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “You promise not to call, or let anyone know I’m here, I’ll tell you who to look for. No details, no questions, but I’ll tell you who stabbed him.”

  “That’s pretty thin,” I said. “How do I know you won’t bullshit me?”

  “How do I know you won’t walk out of here and call the cops?”

  I could hear the heater start blowing warm air through the duct in the ceiling. “You have a name?” I said.

  “Nope, just a description. But I’ll tell you where to find him.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Then hit the road, because we’re done here.”

  I studied her for a moment, and said, “All right, go ahead.”

  “You promise not to fuck me?” she said.

  “Hey, I paid two hundred.”

  She laughed, but it was more like a quick snort. “You chose how to spend your time, not me.”

  “Okay. If your information’s good, I won’t rat you out.”

  She sat on the bed and brushed ashes off her bare thigh, and paused just long enough to concern me. Then she said, “He’s a big, dark man, not black but maybe Samoan or something. He’s not as tall as you, but he’s a lot bigger. His body is shaped like a fat torpedo. You’ll know him when you see him. He’s one ugly motherfucker.”

  “Why did he stab him?” When she shook her head, I said, “Where do I find him?”

  “Go hang out at Pistol Pete’s in Tahoe.”

  “Does he work there?”

  “I said no questions. That’s the deal. You go spend some time at Pistol Pete’s, you’ll find him.”

  I moved toward the door, but she stepped in front of me. “What happened to your ear?” she said, eyeing the damaged ridge of cartilage.

  “An old knife wound.”

  She rose on her toes and leaned in close, her voice a throaty whisper. “When you find him, you’ll have to kill him. Be ready, he’s psycho. Even if you put a gun to his head, he won’t back down.” She pulled back, and my hand was on the door handle, but before I could leave she grabbed my arm and said, “Kill him, then come back and I’ll give you a night of sex you’ll never forget.”

  • • •

  Back out at the bar, a group of college kids had taken over, happily drinking and horsing around, teasing the girls, arm wrestling, and playing the jukebox up loud. I felt a twinge of nostalgia, like I was looking back at a scene out of my youth, and for a moment I was tempted to have a drink with the boys. But my ski jacket was heavy with the weight of Samantha’s address book, so I went out into the night like a grown man with obligations, and drove through the desert badlands back to Las Vegas.

  17

  I was dead sober when I pulled into the Excalibur at one in the morning, and I fell into bed and slept straight through to nine o’clock. When I woke I tried to figure my next move, but my head danced with visions of Samantha’s body, and I had to take a cold shower so I could think without the distraction.

  The fact that Samantha had fled from Reno to work a six-week stint at a remote brothel in southern Nevada suggested she was hiding from the law, or the killer, or both. Actually, it was an ideal place to lie low, hide out, and make money. She could live there and never leave the building, or use a credit card, or leave a phone trail. It was a good place to turn invisible.

  But if she wasn’t somehow involved in the murder as a knowing accomplice, why wouldn’t she go to the police? Was she that scared of the man she thought might be Samoan? Or had she become implicated by an unwitting circumstance, and felt she could be accused of a crime she didn’t commit? She could possibly even be the murderer, although I couldn’t imagine her having the strength to ram a knife all the way through Sylvester Bascom.

  One thing I didn’t doubt was she knew a lot more than she told me. I began to feel increasingly uneasy about her story of the ugly man at Pistol Pete’s. It could be a complete lie—he could be anyone, maybe someone she despised for different reasons—assuming he actually even existed. She could have made up the story on the spot to buy time and get me out of there.

  I cut myself shaving and threw down the razor in disgust. What about her boyfriend, Mr. 187? What was his involvement, and what did he know? If he drove Samantha to Vegas, he’d probably be in violation of his parole. I might be able to use that as leverage to get him to talk.

  The coffee shop downstairs was still crowded for breakfast at ten o’clock. I sat at a small table, drinking coffee, waiting for the waitress to bring my order. A keno runner came by, and I filled out three four-spot cards for two bucks each. Then I opened my notepad and started working on a list of things to do.

  After none of my keno numbers hit, I went back to my room and called Gloria Damone at Dana’s Escorts. Ten rings later I hung up and called directory service for her home number. She was listed and answered promptly. She didn’t sound happy to hear from me.

  “How’d you get my number?” she said.

  “You’re listed.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to call me at home.”

  “I apologize for the imposition.”

  “Well, please don’t call me here. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “Can you tell me if you’ve heard from Beverly Howitt?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Do you have any idea where she is?

  “None whatsoever,” she said, and the line went dead.

  My next call was to directory service in Utah. There were six listings for Howitt, and one was in Salina. I called the number, and the woman who answered had a tired, impatient voice.

  “Is Beverly there?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “I’m calling from payroll services, and we have a check for her. Do you know how
I can contact her?”

  “I don’t know. I heard she’s back in town, but I haven’t seen her. I suppose you can mail it here.”

  “Are you her mother?” I asked.

  “No, her aunt.”

  I took down the address, then booked a one o’clock Delta flight to Salt Lake City. Salina was a small town about 140 miles south of Salt Lake, nestled in a five-mile-wide valley between the ten-thousand-foot peaks of the Fishlake National Forest. I had spent a night there about fifteen years ago with Cody Gibbons. I was visiting him in Salt Lake, and we decided to road trip to the Grand Canyon after a boring night of trying to get drunk on 3.2 Utah beer. It was springtime, and I remembered the country as clean and verdant. Cody had insisted we stay in Salina because he wanted to check out a well-known country-western bar called Stigs. I wondered if it was still there.

  I checked out of the Excalibur, and on the way out I saw the family from the airplane in the hotel’s bus terminal. The teenage boy sat close to his mother and away from his father, who was slumped over asleep at the other end of a long bench. There was a big group of older folks waiting in the crowded area, and some stood rather than sit near him, as if he had a communicable disease.

  I dropped off the Caddy, found a bar in the airport, and dialed Wenger’s office number. I got his answering machine as I’d hoped, and left a brief message telling him I’d be away at least through the end of the week. Then I called Edward Cutlip.

  “Mr. Bascom’s pissed,” he said nervously.

  “At who?”

  “Me, you, the world. Actually, he’s mad because the Tahoe detectives haven’t returned his calls. He’s making life miserable for everyone around here.”

  “Maybe my news will put him in a better mood.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I found one of the call girls who was in Sylvester’s room. She’s a hard-core hooker who’s probably been riding around on the back of a Harley since she had pigtails. She claims to know who stabbed Sylvester and gave me a description and told me where to find him. Says he’s an easy guy to find, stands out like a chicken at a dog show.”

  “So you’re on your way back here?”

  “No, I’m flying to Salt Lake City.”

  “Why?”

  “I think there were two girls in the room. I want to talk to the second one and get her story before I do anything.”

  “Okay. It sounds like you’re making progress. That’s good news, Mr. Bascom should be glad to hear it. How soon you think it’ll be until you crack the case?”

  “I don’t know. Did you make any progress on the bank records?”

  “Yeah, I’ll have them next Monday. They put a rush on it.”

  “Good. Have you heard anything more from Raneswich and Iverson?”

  “Nope, they’ve gone incommunicado since Mr. Bascom dressed them down yesterday.”

  “Raneswich strikes me as so uptight you couldn’t pull a needle out of his ass with a tractor.”

  Edward laughed. “Call me tomorrow,” he said.

  I ordered a sandwich at the bar and declined a six dollar beer. Then I called Cody Gibbons.

  “You’ll never guess where I’m headed right now,” I said.

  “Gimme a clue.”

  “Stigs.”

  “What? You got to be kidding, you’re going to Salina?”

  “You got it. I’ll be getting drunk at Stigs tonight.”

  “Good luck. They closed that joint years ago. Remember I pulled that babe out of there and you ended up sleeping in the car?”

  “You’d never let me forget it,” I said.

  “She was good-looking too.”

  “My ass.”

  “What? You still sound bitter, Dirty.”

  “Damn right. I froze my ass that night.”

  “You’re going to Salina for your case?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and gave him a short version of Bascom’s murder and my findings.

  “I got the records you asked for,” he said after I finished. “Edward Cutlip has nothing but a few traffic violations, and the same for Sylvester Bascom. But Sven Osterlund is a different story: shoplifting and a couple busts for assault and battery, two DUI arrests and one conviction, a cocaine possession that was dropped, and an indecent exposure for pissing on the street in front of a bar. He’s been represented by Lawrence Stein on his last couple arrests, and Stein’s made a fortune defending wealthy lowlifes. It looks likes Osterlund’s managed to avoid any serious jail time.”

  “Tell Stein he won’t be representing Osterlund again, if you see him around the courthouse.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because dead men don’t pay their bills too well.”

  “Osterlund’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Somebody shot him and dumped him in Lake Tahoe.”

  “Well, fuckin’-A. Hey, man, why don’t I meet you in Tahoe when you get back? It sounds like you might need some backup.” Then he lowered his voice. “I got to get out of here. Being home all the time is causing problems with my wife.”

  “I don’t know if that would work. I’ve been busy as hell, Cody.”

  “So? Come on, I’ll watch your back. Maybe I can help you, run license plates, you know? I got people who owe me favors at the precinct.”

  It sounded like a bad idea. I wanted to keep a low profile, and Cody’s style was about as subtle as a buffalo stampede at a tea party.

  “I don’t even know when I’ll be back in Tahoe,” I said, but I knew I didn’t sound convincing.

  “How about if I call you Friday morning and drive up? You should be back by then, huh? Really, man, I got to split. Debbie and I had just patched things up, and now it’s going bad again. Our relationship is better when I’m not around so much. I’m serious.”

  “Cody, I can’t afford a shit storm in Tahoe. I got too much at stake to let things get out of control.”

  “What? What? Hey, you got my word I’ll be mellow. Just easy times and slow beers. You know me.”

  “Yeah, I do know you. That’s what scares me. All right, give me a call Friday, and we’ll talk.”

  “We’ll have a hell of a time, Dirt. Just like the old days!”

  • • •

  The wind was gusting when my flight took off, which made for a rough ride to Salt Lake. I sat in a row by myself in the half-full plane, watching the features of Las Vegas grow small and fall away. I reached into my pocket for Samantha’s address book and slowly went through the pages, trying to read life into the anonymous names and numbers. The book wasn’t very full. I counted sixteen female and nine male names, one of which could belong to Mr. 187. Toward the back, under X, Y and Z, were a number of sketches, mostly faces, of both men and women. They were well-drawn, and I studied them for a while, then put the book away and closed my eyes. But I found the faces strangely compelling, as if perhaps they told a story, and I took the book out and was still staring at the drawings when the plane touched down.

  18

  Salt Lake City looked an ugly gray, as it always did in winter. The mountains that loomed over the city were snowcapped and foreboding and seemed to cast a pall over the uniformly dull and lifeless downtown buildings. Even the trees were bare and without color. You could film a movie here in black and white, and no one would know the difference.

  I rented a Ford sedan and headed south. Once I’d been on the road for half an hour, the country opened up and the landscape turned green and picturesque. I turned off the interstate south of Nephi and drove a few miles down Highway 28 before pulling over at a small country market for a can of beer. A mountain range studded with fir and pine bordered the highway on the right, and a broad meadow lay to the left. A stream babbled faintly in the distance, and the wind made a rushing sound through the trees. The air felt cold and fresh on my face, in contrast to the smoggy grit of the city.

  It was twilight when I rolled into Salina. The main drag of the small town was quiet, almost deserted, leaving the impression it was always silent and still here,
as if the local population had long ago given up any hope of exuberance.

  I spotted a state liquor store and picked up two pints of booze. A small hotel at the end of the street advertised color TV and cable. I checked in, and while the clerk did the paperwork, I read a thin brochure describing activities in Salina and the city’s history.

  Salina, the Spanish word for “salt,” was named for the large salt deposits in the area. The primary recreation was fishing and hunting in the nearby Fishlake area, and the biggest employer was the coal mine thirty miles east of town in Salina Canyon. The town had been abandoned in 1872 because of Indian troubles, but was resettled in 1886, and today has a population of slightly over two thousand. It made for good reading to pass the time, but didn’t give me any hint where Beverly Howitt might be found.

  I stayed in my room long enough to brush my teeth and drag a comb through my hair, then I drove around town for a few minutes until I found the address on Third Street where Beverly’s aunt lived. It was a small green home with a tar driveway and a shake roof so old it looked like a strong breeze would blow the shingles into the street. But the house was dark, the driveway empty, and no one answered when I knocked. I considered waiting in my car across the street, but I hadn’t had dinner, and the pint of whiskey on my passenger seat kept whispering my name. So I drove back to Main Street and found a bar toward the end of town in a crumbling stucco structure with an old Western-style wood plank façade.

  When I went in, every eye in the place turned to me, like they hadn’t seen a new face for years. A couple of grizzled ranch hands sat at the battle-scared bar, drinking Coors bottles, their faces set with hard expressions and bleak eyes. Next to them was a middle-aged woman who looked like she might have been a schoolteacher or maybe worked at a general store. She wore her hair pinned up, and her dress had gone out of style decades ago. At the end of the bar, an old hippie wearing a green fatigue jacket and tattered blue jeans sat holding a bottle in a brown paper bag. He had long, dirty hair, a scraggly beard, and was smoking Pall Mall non-filters.

  I took a seat on a rickety bar stool. The bar top was marred by hundreds of cigarette burns, and half of the lacquer had peeled off. In the back of the joint was a kitchen with a pass-through window cut out of the wall. The bartender was talking to someone; after a minute he took his foot off the sinks and came my way, flipping a coaster neatly in front of me.