STATELINE: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  • • •

  While I was contemplating the dream that early morning, there was no way I could have known that two men were having a conversation that would have given my nocturnal visions a different perspective. They were fifty miles west of Truckee in the foothills above Sacramento, meeting in a room barely lit by the gray dawn. One man, with a salt-and-pepper mustache over yellowed teeth, looked at the cigar between his fingers, then broke it in half and dropped it in an ashtray.

  “You let this thing get out of control. That’s not like you.”

  “Look at it this way—Stiles was a liability,” the other man said, his eyes opaque against his dark face.

  “Stiles? You’re becoming a liability. I hired you to protect my business interests. So you go kill some rich man’s son during a pointless robbery, then you and Stiles go fixin’ to whack this private eye, without my okay, and Stiles ends up dead. Stupid. I never expected that from you.”

  “Maybe Stiles is best in a grave. Dead men can’t talk.”

  “Well, now. Ain’t that the truth.”

  The room was quiet, then the man with the dark skin and barrel-shaped body stepped from the shadows, his eyes glowing with a primal luster. He smiled and took another step, and Sheriff Conrad Pace involuntarily leaned back. He blinked, surprised at his own reflex. It was not like Sheriff Pace to be frightened. It was an emotion he hadn’t experienced in years. But when he looked at that wet smile, he felt oddly out of his element. It occurred to him that, given the right motivation, the man standing before him would tear him to pieces with his bare hands.

  The feeling was gone in an instant, and Conrad Pace walked behind his desk. He sat and stared out his window to the wet, rolling pastures, where spirals of silver mist reached down from the sky and touched the jade hills. Had he made a mistake in enlisting Julo Nafui? As an enforcer, the man had no equal. But Nafui had run amuck; killing Bascom might well get Nafui arrested, even though half the force was on Pace’s pad. And Pace harbored no illusions about the eventual outcome once Nafui faced a murder charge. The big sheriff’s jaw tightened as he imagined Nafui implicating him in exchange for a plea bargain. That was unacceptable. He would have to do something about it. Pace looked up at Nafui, at the unnatural hulk of his torso, at his ugly, merciless face. Killing him would be easier said than done. Perhaps there were other options. Sheriff Pace raised his finger and pointed at Nafui.

  “I’m gonna straighten this shit out, starting with the private eye,” Pace said. “You lay low, and I’ll call you when I need you.”

  Nafui smiled widely, his teeth glistening with saliva. “Don’t make me wait too long,” he said. “I get antsy when I got nothing to do.”

  • • •

  The main drag of Truckee was deserted at 6:30 A.M. The wind blew through the streets, echoing hollowly against the storefronts, sending bits of paper and trash swirling across the icy pavement. I had never felt it so cold. For a second I looked up and down the street, searching, then with a jolt realized my old faithful Nissan was on its side in the Truckee River. I walked about half a mile to a 7-Eleven, shivering, my hands deep in my coat pockets. The warmth of the store was a relief. I poured myself a large coffee.

  “Damn, it’s cold,” I said to the clerk.

  “This is nothing for Truckee. Hit forty-six below one year. It’s only about ten below now.”

  I rubbed my unshaven mug and hiked back to the hotel. At eight-thirty I called my insurance company to report my car was totaled. They took down the information, then gave me the number of a local towing company that would recover the vehicle. My vehicle. Or now my ex-vehicle. The fucking Nissan—the car I had driven through my marriage, my divorce, through countless drunken episodes, and through three years of sobriety. I had owned it for almost my entire adulthood. It seemed unreal I would never drive it again; to my surprise, I felt a twinge of nostalgic sadness. The car and I had been through a lot together.

  My cell rang, snapping me out of my despondent reverie. There were more important things to worry about, I told myself. Like finding out who was trying to kill me.

  “Dan?” Cody’s voice said.

  “Hey, Cody.”

  “I’m all packed up and ready to go, man. Where should I meet you?”

  Suddenly, having Cody around didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I gave him the name of the hotel in Truckee.

  “I thought you were in South Lake,” he said.

  “Yeah, I was on the way there and had a little car trouble.”

  “It may be time to get a new car, Dirt.”

  “I think you’re right. The Nissan’s totaled.”

  “What? Were you drunk?”

  “Sober, believe it or not. Remember those hookers I was telling you about? I think one of them sent her boyfriend and another dude after me. Somehow they found my car in the airport parking lot and cut the brake lines. Then they rammed me off Highway 80 with their truck. I flipped and ended up at the bottom of a canyon in the Truckee River.”

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I was lucky. But the guys came after me in the canyon.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “What happened?”

  “I told the first one to drop his gun–”

  “But he didn’t,” Cody interjected.

  “Yeah. And so I–”

  “Blew his freaking head off?”

  “No, I aimed low, but he moved and took it in the gut.”

  “Christ, I’d rather get my brains blown out than take one in the gut,” Cody said. “I remember when one of our guys on the force had to wear a colostomy bag for six months.”

  “This guy’s not gonna need a colostomy bag.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “Well, fuck him. What about the other guy?”

  “He opened up on me with an automatic weapon, sounded like an Uzi. I returned his fire and scared him away.”

  “I guess we ought to go find this man and engage him in philosophical discussion, eh?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said, no longer so reluctant to enlist Cody’s buffalo-style ways.

  • • •

  Before Cody hung up, I asked him to run a report on Michael Dean Stiles. I was hoping something in his police record might be helpful. Cody said he’d try, as the unmistakable voice of an unhappy woman rang out in the background.

  The Truckee detectives met me in the lobby, and we went next door to a small coffee and pastry joint. They pushed me quite a bit harder than the Nevada County sheriff, but I didn’t give them any names besides Sylvester Bascom. Eventually they left me after I suggested they confer with Detectives Raneswich and Iverson from South Lake Tahoe PD. Surely they’d have more valuable information than I could offer, I said.

  The skies were dark and heavy when I called Edward to give him his daily update.

  “Tell John Bascom there were three men in the room when Sylvester was murdered. Two are now dead,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Edward said. I heard the phone moving around and muffled voices.

  “Reno, this is John Bascom.” The words boomed through the small speaker. “Tell me what’s happening,” he barked, as if it were an order. I was tempted to say, “Yes, sir,” but I wasn’t in the mood for it. “There were two call girls and three men in Sylvester’s room when he was stabbed,” I said.

  “You know this for sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they doing there? Do you have their names?”

  “One of them was Sven Osterlund. He was watching through a peephole in the closet. At this point, I think one of the hookers set up Sylvester to be robbed. But he and Osterlund fought back, and that’s when Sylvester was stabbed. I think Osterlund was shot the next day because he witnessed Sylvester’s murder.”

  Bascom was silent for a moment. “My son was killed for what, whatever cash was in his wallet?”

  “That’s possible. But there may be more to it.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s still conjecture at
this point, but drugs and blackmail may be involved.”

  “Blackmail? Who was in the room besides Osterlund?”

  “The second man was Michael Dean Stiles. He’s the boyfriend of one of the hookers, and he ran me off the road and shot at me last night.”

  “He did? Is he the one who stabbed Sylvester?”

  “No.”

  “But he was there, so let’s bring him to the police as a witness. Where is he?”

  “The morgue.”

  Bascom didn’t even pause. “Goddammit! You killed him?”

  “I was trying to wound him.”

  “So what happens now? Do you know who killed my son?”

  “No. But I hope to in twenty-four hours.”

  “Well, that’s the first decent news I’ve heard. I swear, whoever it is will fry in hell.”

  “One way or another, I suppose.”

  “Reno, I advise you get a hold of these two incompetents who call themselves detectives. They’re looking for you.”

  “Apparently they’re not the only ones,” I said.

  • • •

  The snow had started falling when I left the hotel. It was still an hour before noon, and I wandered into the empty saloon on the corner to wait for Cody. I was watching the snowfall in silence and sipping a beer when he burst through the doorway.

  “What, what? Ha, I didn’t even try your hotel! I knew you’d be at the nearest bar. You drunk!” His voice echoed off the walls. He came up behind me, massaging my neck and shoulders with his huge hands. I lost my balance and almost fell off the barstool.

  “Come on, Dirt, cheer up! Do they serve food here? Where the hell is everybody? This place is like a ghost town.”

  “You’re looking good, Cody.”

  “What? My ass! Have you gone queer? I’m over three hundred again!”

  His frame was so big he could gain or lose thirty pounds and not look any different. He sat down next to me. The barstool groaned but held; I’d seen him collapse smaller chairs.

  “Things okay back home?” I asked.

  “Sure, wonderful. Debbie’s a great wife, as long as I’m not there. I imagine our relationship would be perfect if we got together maybe once a month to screw.”

  “Marriage is a tough gig.”

  “I’d say it’s a dying institution. You have any luck with the broads lately?”

  “Not like the old days,” I said. But then I told him about Beverly Howitt and her involvement in the case.

  “You gonna see her again?” he asked.

  “Maybe. But first I got to find this Samoan, or whatever he is.”

  “Let’s go track him down.”

  “Right,” I said. “He wrecked my damn car.”

  “So? Your car was a piece of shit anyway.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Okay, fine,” Cody said.

  “Anyway, I want to try to take him alive. Right?”

  “Hey, Dan, this prick shot at you. Let’s go stomp his shit into the tar.”

  “Not my job, Cody. I just need to deliver him to collect the bounty.”

  “Bounty’s balls. That’s something I could never figure out about you, Dirt. Someone tries to kill you, and you’re nonchalant about it. But I’ve seen guys insult you, and you want to rip them apart with your bare hands.”

  “I killed a man last night, Cody.”

  “Like that guy whose skull you fractured down in LA,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “Or that dude you sent to the hospital outside of that bar in Gilroy. Remember that time?”

  “Every time you remind me.”

  “Well, I think it’s time to rack up some more memories,” he said, his hand clasped on the back of my neck, his fingers rough as raw leather against my skin.

  We had lunch then hit the road in Cody’s Dodge truck, driving south on Highway 89, past Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts, through Tahoe City, and around the lake. The snow continued to drift down from above, and Cody shifted his transfer case into four-wheel drive as we went over the grade above Emerald Bay. I pointed out to Cody that Osterlund’s body was found in the bay. He shook his head.

  “Why would someone dump his body there?” he said, his red beard glowing beneath his hard eyes. “In plain sight? Unless they wanted him to be found. Like they’re trying to send a message.”

  “Could be they wanted to scare me off.”

  “Maybe it’s time you sent a message of your own.”

  I found myself watching the passing cars carefully, and I adjusted Cody’s side-view mirror so I could see behind us. I took my piece out of its holster and balanced its weight in my palm, feeling the cold metal grips against my skin.

  My cell rang as we dropped into the valley, driving on 50 toward Stateline.

  “Dan Reno, Detective Paul Iverson,” the voice said. “What do you say we get together and shoot the breeze this afternoon?”

  “I’ve got a busy schedule.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. You sound like an industrious man.”

  “That’s how it is when you work for yourself,” I said, and the line went quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “Can I meet you at the Lakeside at three o’clock?”

  “We can meet at The King’s Head,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you there at three.”

  We pulled into the King’s Head a few minutes early, and the only other car in the parking lot was a blue Ford Explorer with an E-series license plate. I decided to leave my gun in Cody’s truck. Wouldn’t need it for a meeting with a cop.

  A solitary man was shooting pool when we walked in. He didn’t look like a policeman—more like a casting reject from a vampire movie. The paleness of his face made me wonder if he was ill, or afflicted with a disease of the skin. When he moved around the table he seemed to glide gracefully, like a ballet dancer. His blond hair was lank and barely covered his scalp, even though he wasn’t going bald. He held the pool cue with thin, almost dainty fingers that were a lighter shade than the white pine of the cue itself. Even his clothes struck me as odd; he wore red slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt.

  “Ah, you must be Dan Reno,” he said, looking up with nearly translucent blue eyes. “Watch this.” He had lined up a two-rail bank shot. He missed it by a foot.

  “I’ve seen better shots in a doctor’s office,” Cody said.

  “Or on a bar,” I added.

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled without parting his lips. “It must be my lucky day, I get a couple comedians. I’m Paul Iverson.”

  “Where’s your partner, Raneswich?” I said.

  “He thought it would be best if I met with you.”

  “That’s good thinking on his part. I hear he’s quite the asshole,” Cody said. But Iverson laughed. “That’s not an uncommon opinion,” he replied. “Let’s talk about the murder of Sylvester Bascom.”

  “Speak freely, Detective,” I said.

  “I’d like to know what you’ve learned in your investigation.”

  “I’d like to know what you’ve learned in yours.”

  “Tit for tat then, is it?”

  “However you want to put it.”

  Iverson didn’t look happy with my response. Two men were sitting at the end of the bar, huddled over pints and shots. One of them was slurring and babbling noisily about his gambling losses. The bartender looked to where we stood and said, “What’ll it be, mates?”

  “Has that guy been here all day?” Iverson said, jerking his thumb at the whining drunk.

  The bartender glanced at his watch. “Not yet,” he said. Iverson shook his head and led us to a table in the back.

  “We identified a hooker we believe was in the hotel room at the Crown,” he started. “But we can’t find her. The escort service she worked for is closed, and their records have vanished.”

  “Dana’s Escorts?”

  “That’s right. Tell me what you know about them.”

  “I talked to them,” I said, thinking that Dana’s would have been th
e immediate link to Beverly Howitt. But it sounded like they’d folded up their operation.

  “They told me a woman named Samantha was sent to the Crown,” I offered.

  “Samantha Nunez,” Iverson said.

  “Right.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “At a whorehouse down near Vegas,” I said, without a twinge of regret. I had promised Samantha I’d not turn her in, but since I figured she sent Mr. 187 after me, the deal was null and void.

  “The Cat’s Meow,” he said. “She’s no longer there. You have any idea where she might be?”

  “None. On second thought, you might find her at the funeral of Michael Dean Stiles.”

  Iverson looked at me with narrow eyes. “Why?”

  “He was Samantha’s boyfriend. I suspect that after I talked to Samantha, she called him, and he decided to try to kill me. My assumption is he was involved in Bascom’s death.”

  “And now Stiles is dead,” Iverson said. We stared at each other. After a moment he looked down, tracing a figure-eight pattern on the table with his finger.

  “What else did Samantha tell you?”

  “Not much. She was in the room, and she said a big black man tried to rob Bascom. Bascom resisted and got stabbed.”

  “A big black man, huh? And how did this supposed big black man get in the room?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Did she let him in? It sounds like she must have.”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Mr. Reno, I’m getting a strong impression you’re being less than forthright.”

  I shook my head. “Detective, Samantha Nunez is not dumb, nor is she easy to intimidate. She lives on the edge, and she’s a survivor. I was lucky to find her and even luckier to get anything out of her. I’ve told you everything she said.”

  Iverson wasn’t naïve. He knew I was being obtuse, but he had nothing to charge me with, and he hadn’t offered any information of value, which meant he had no bargaining chips. His frustration hung over him like a cloud of stale cigarette smoke.

  “What about the black guy? Who is he?”