STATELINE: A Dan Reno Novel

by Dave Stanton

  We parked on the icy curb and walked to the door, vests on, weapons loaded. I didn’t think Grier was part of Conrad Pace’s gang, but I wasn’t in the mood to take chances.

  Near the front door, hidden from plain sight by the shadows, was a broad red discoloration in the snow. The stain was fresh. Cody and I stared at it grimly, and I eased my gun out of its holster. Cody motioned to me and stood on the small, covered porch aside the door, holding his .44. I stood opposite him, my back against the wall, and reached out and rapped on the door. It swung open after a moment, and Marcus Grier took a step onto the porch. He wore a green, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pleated khaki pants. He saw Cody first and froze.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” I said. “That’s Cody Gibbons.”

  Grier turned in my direction. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Reno?”

  “What happened?” I said, nodding at the spot.

  “None of your business,” he said, his eyes locked on my gun hand.

  “I asked you a question, Sheriff.”

  “I’m no longer sheriff, Reno, but as a citizen I don’t take kindly to two armed men trespassing on my property. What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about a couple people—Jake Tuma and Conrad Pace.”

  He shook his head. “Sounds like police business. I’m out of it now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cody said.

  “Why did you lose your job?” I said.

  He raised his head. “Why do you assume it’s any of your business?” His voice was a course baritone.

  “Cody and I had a run-in two nights ago with Deputies Fingsten and Perdie, along with Conrad Pace and an assassin who works for Salvador Tuma. We were fortunate to survive.”

  His thumbs hooked in his belt loops, Grier stared us down.

  “Pace is going down big time,” I said. “Nothing can stop that now.”

  Grier’s face creased in doubt, but I saw a glimmer of hope flicker in his eyes. He looked down for a long moment, then raised his head.

  “This morning I found our family dog, dead,” he said. “Someone cut him from his throat to belly. I tried to remove the animal before my daughter saw it. But I was too late.”

  “You know who did it?” I said.

  Grier’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot, locked onto mine. Then he turned and gestured for us to follow him inside. Cody and I re-holstered our pieces and did so.

  We stood at his kitchen table. The area was well heated by a wood-burning stove in the adjoining family room.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “No, thank you,” Cody said. But when Marcus Grier set a bottle of bourbon on the table, Cody’s eyes lit up. “Whiskey will do,” he said.

  “You say you’ve met Conrad Pace,” Grier said.

  “Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, then I told him about Pace’s attempt to scare us out of town.

  “The Samoan,” Grier said. “His name is Julo Nafui. Ex-mercenary, spent time in El Salvador, Libya, Afghanistan—he’s not particular. He works wherever there’s a paycheck to be had. Apparently, he found an opportunity here.”

  “He works for Salvador Tuma.”

  “That’s right,” Grier said. “Which means he also works for Conrad Pace.”

  “Nafui’s the man who stabbed Sylvester Bascom to death.”

  “That I didn’t know, but I can’t say I’m shocked.”

  “Why is Salvador Tuma paying off Pace? What’s their deal?”

  Grier poured a jolt of whiskey into his coffee cup. “You ever been to New Mexico, Mr. Reno?”

  “I spent a week in Albuquerque one night. Why?”

  “There’s a small town out there looking for a sheriff. I hear it’s not a bad place to live. Maybe I’ll drive down there, see the sights, check it out.”

  “Or maybe you’ll stay here and help fry Pace’s grits,” Cody said, helping himself to the whiskey. “That is, unless you got something to hide.”

  “What the hell do you know about it?” Grier rose to his feet, his voice booming. He snatched the bottle out of Cody’s hands.

  “I’m a detective with San Jose PD,” Cody said, standing in turn. “I’ve been on the job for six years. I was right in the middle of the big shakeout a few years ago, when eleven patrolmen were indicted for taking bribes, stealing drugs, and falsifying evidence. One of the patrolmen was my partner. I hear they still keep him in solitary confinement at San Quentin for his own safety.”

  “I never ratted out another cop,” Grier said. “What about you?”

  “Let me tell you this, I never took a damn dime, and I watched the guys around me buying new cars and fancy clothes, going out to dinner all the time at expensive joints, divorcing their wives and screwing bimbos, and acting like their shit don’t stink. I didn’t say a word, but when they put me on the stand, put my hand on the goddamned Bible and said, ‘Tell the truth or risk perjury,’ you know what?” Cody slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the plates in the cabinet behind him. “I told the truth. Because those patrolmen weren’t cops anymore. They were crooks, just like the everyday scumbags we busted on the streets. My loyalty to them went out the window when they started living the fucking highlife with dirty money.”

  Grier rolled the whiskey bottle back and forth in his hands. Cody sat back down, and Grier reached over and poured a splash into his cup. He placed his hands flat on the table, looking at the two of us.

  “So you guys think you can put away Conrad Pace.”

  “He’s going down, Sheriff,” I said.

  “Talk is cheap,” Grier said.

  “We’ll finish him…with your help.”

  Grier’s eyes seemed intent on bulging out of his skull, and his skin shone as if a coat of oil lay on the surface. Finally he looked away and took a quick pull straight from the bottle.

  “Pace,” he snorted, his voice edged with disgust. “When he was elected, I’d been deputy sheriff in South Lake Tahoe for four years. I own this home free and clear, and it’s a nice life for my wife and daughters. Clean air, slow pace, nice scenery. Not a bad place to raise a family, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Pace had been a county sheriff in Louisiana,” he continued, “and even though there were rumors of trouble from down South, he won the election here easily because there was little opposition. The previous sheriff had retired, and Pace came into town and ran a slick campaign. When Pace took office, he started weeding out the minorities and bringing in his own people. Perdie? Supposedly he’s Pace’s cousin. And Fingsten is his nephew. I had been somewhat removed from his workings since the county office is down in Placerville. But when he forced me to hire Perdie and Fingsten, I started to understand what he was up to. Those clowns don’t do much to hide it.

  “Pace somehow got hooked up with Salvador Tuma, a mobster originally from New York. The Tuma family is heavily involved in casino interests in Vegas and Atlantic City. Once Tuma and Pace got in bed together, Tuma set up a drug dealing hub in Placerville that supplies the Central Valley, Sacramento, Stockton, down to Modesto, and also the Tahoe and Reno area. They run everything; coke, meth, ecstasy, pot, you name it. Tuma put his son Jake in charge of the operation. I imagine under Pace’s protection, they’ve made boatloads of money. Pace is getting a healthy cut—you ought to see the mansion he lives in out at Granite Bay. Anyway, Michael Dean Stiles, the man you shot? He worked for Jake Tuma. And so does Julo Nafui. He handles collections and discourages competitors.”

  “So that’s why you let Jake Tuma skate that night at Zeke’s.”

  “Yes. He gets a free pass, thanks to Pace.”

  “What about the local police departments? Aren’t they on to Pace by now?”

  “Pace is an extremely effective manipulator, and he’s also cunning and ruthless. Somehow nothing ever sticks to him. He’s slicker than owl shit.”

  “How about Raneswich and Iverson?”

  “Raneswich is dirty. Iverson, I don’t k
now.”

  “Did you quit your job?” I asked.

  “No. Although I considered it every day for the last six months. What happened was Perdie and Fingsten were both incompetent and spending a lot of time tending to Tuma’s drug business. I chewed them out the other day, and twenty-four hours later Pace fired me for misconduct.”

  I picked up a piece of paper and wrote the phone number of the Sacramento journalist that John Bascom gave me.

  “Call this guy, Marcus,” I said, handing him the phone number. “He’s from the Sacramento Bee, and he’s familiar with some of the recent events involving Pace and his crew. With your input, he’ll be able get a running start on hanging Pace out to dry.”

  We stood to leave. Grier stared at the piece of paper in his hand.

  “Who did that to your dog?” I said.

  “It was Perdie. Had to be. It’s his style. There was a note pinned to the body saying I’m next unless I keep my mouth shut.”

  When we drove away, Grier was still on his porch, studying the piece of paper I’d given him.

  24

  “We got a problem now, Cuz,” Louis Perdie said to Conrad Pace, the phone sweaty against his cheek. “Reno and his buddy were at Pistol Pete’s earlier today and ended up in Sal Tuma’s office.”

  Pace’s eyes jumped under his furrowed brow. “They talked to Tuma? This some kind of joke, Louis?’

  “No, sir, and there’s more. They just left Marcus Grier’s house.”

  Pace squeezed his eyes shut and felt his ears reddening. “Louis, you need to make goddamn sure you know what you’re talking about.”

  “One of our guys is following them now.”

  Pace exhaled, and calmness slowly replaced his anger, an emotional response he attached to the inevitability of what must be done.

  “Tell him not to lose them. I’ll call Julo Nafui.”

  • • •

  “Now I know what Michael Dean Stiles meant by his last words,” I said, as we drove away from Grier’s house.

  “What’s that?”

  “He said, ‘The sheriff.’ I thought he meant Marcus Grier. But he was talking about Conrad Pace.”

  Cody grunted. “You know what I don’t get?” he said. “You got a casino guy paying off a sheriff so he can run a drug ring. You got Michael Dean Stiles, AKA Mr. One Eight Seven, and Julo whatever the fuck helping run the show. But how does that tie in to Bascom’s murder? What’s the connection between the drugs and Bascom?”

  “Julo Nafui knows the answer to that. So does Samantha Nunez. I also told Edward to get Sylvester Bascom’s bank records for the last six months. That might tell us something.”

  “Why don’t you ask him to meet us at a bar?”

  “All right,” I said. “Just do me a favor and try to stay reasonably sober.”

  “Sometimes I do my best work with a buzz,” he said, winking.

  It was one of his lines I would remember.

  • • •

  We took a table at a neighborhood lounge off 50, and I called Edward.

  “Julo Nafui,” I said, spelling it for him. “Like I said yesterday, he’s Salvador Tuma’s henchman. He works at Pistol Pete’s, or at least has access to the back rooms.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Edward said.

  “My job.”

  “Oh, right, I meant—anyway, I’ve got Sylvester’s bank records, if you’re still interested.”

  “I am. We’re at this dive…hold on. Hey, man,” I yelled at the kid tending bar, “what’s the name of this joint?”

  “The Chatter Box,” he said.

  “Why don’t I meet you there at eight?” Edward said.

  After we hung up, I turned to Cody. “I’m gonna try something.” I dialed the number Iverson left for me.

  “Afternoon, Detective,” I said. “Have you arrested Julo Nafui yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Salvador Tuma’s henchman. The one who murdered Sylvester Bascom and probably also Sven Osterlund.”

  “I see,” Iverson said.

  “Quit wasting time, Iverson. Arrest Julo Nafui. He’s the one who stabbed Sylvester Bascom to death.”

  “Where’d you find this out?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He also almost killed my friend and me. Put out an APB on him.”

  “You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,” he said. “Hey, John Bascom called my boss and told your story of being dunked and left to freeze in the hills. By Conrad Pace!” He chuckled.

  “You find that farfetched? You were there when he abducted us.”

  “I was there when he arrested you. If Conrad Pace wanted you out of the picture, you’d be sitting in a cell right now, not walking the streets.”

  “Detective, I’m going to tell you something for your own personal protection. I’m not sure if you’re on the take or not, but even if you’re not, I don’t sense you’re going to play any role in taking down the bad guys, other than maybe filing some paperwork. So this is just information hopefully you can use to keep yourself out of trouble. Okay?”

  “Continue, please. I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Conrad Pace is taking money from Tuma to allow him to deal drugs out of Placerville. Two deputies, Perdie and Fingsten, are relatives of Pace, and they’re part of the deal. So is your partner, Raneswich. Pace has a vested interest in protecting Tuma, and that includes Julo Nafui. Hopefully you can draw your own conclusions.”

  “My, my, don’t we have an active imagination,” he chortled.

  “Maybe I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, huh?”

  “Listen to me,” a different voice said.

  I felt a sudden violation at having an unexpected party on the line. My throat tightened, and I could feel the heat rise in my face.

  “Who is this?”

  “Shut up and listen to me. You come into my town and trample all over my turf, preventing this police department from conducting a proper investigation, and then you start spraying around these ludicrous accusations–”

  “How’s it going, Raneswich?”

  “I should have thrown you in jail last week. Obstruction of justice, breaking and entering, drunk in public, murder—you’re a prosecutor’s dream. I want you out of town. And not just South Lake Tahoe—that means Reno, Truckee, the whole damn region.”

  “You’re pissing in the wind,” I said. “Why don’t you go back to drinking from the toilet, or whatever it is you spend your working hours doing?”

  I heard Raneswich suck in his breath through his teeth.

  “I like your attitude. On second thought, hang around a while. It will make for a real nice day when I lock you up. I know some inmates down at Folsom who would love to meet you.”

  “Give it up, Raneswich. I know you’re sucking off Conrad Pace and Salvador Tuma for chump change. You think they’ll give a shit when you’re indicted along with them?”

  “I find it incredible a person like you is on the streets in this city. But that’ll be a temporary situation,” he said, and the line went dead.

  “Don’t you hate it when they get in the last word?” Cody said, as I set my phone down.

  “The Tahoe PD has no interest in Nafui,” I said.

  He raised his beer mug to me. “At least you don’t have to compete with them for the bounty.” He had a point, but at that moment the money was the last thing on my mind. The exchange with Raneswich had confirmed that the morally insane were running the show, and both the criminals and the dirty cops would stop at nothing to preserve their cozy little arrangement. I was both angry and disheartened, and felt a strong urge to just leave the cesspool to those who inhabited it.

  “You know why we’re still here?” Cody said, his eyes boring into mine. “Packing this new iron, wearing these vests, hanging around town? You know why? It’s because those guys caught us with our dicks out and our pants around our ankles, and it was easy. We barely put up a fight, and they took us out to that river and had a good laugh while
we nearly drown and froze to death. They treated us like a couple of amateurs.”

  Cody took a long hit off his beer. “And neither of us wants to leave until that score is settled. We’re gonna find those assholes, or, if they find us first, we’ll be ready. Then we’ll settle the fucking score.”

  I looked at Cody. Even though his words sounded like boozy, macho, bar-rail boasting, I couldn’t argue his conclusion. But my reasoning was a little different. Yes, the criminals and corrupt cops had to be put out of commission. They all needed to go down, because any one of them might gladly kill us, given the opportunity. And that included the whole band: Nafui, Pace, Louis Perdie, and the dipshit cop Fingsten. And Raneswich, and maybe Iverson too, if he got in the way.

  When I went out to the back patio to have a smoke, the skies had turned dark. Gray and white clouds were moving slowly over the lake with the wind, from the west. It looked like another goddamned storm.

  While we waited for Edward, I took a seat at a cocktail table in the back of the place and called the number for the Sacramento Bee. I spent an hour on the phone with a journalist, giving him a detailed account of what had happened during the last three days. I gave him names, dates, everything I could think of. He said there had been vague rumors of corruption in Silverado County for months, but no one ever got a handle on it. “This is big,” he said.

  “How’d it go?” Cody asked when I came back to the bar.

  “I think I just poured a shitload of grief into Conrad Pace’s life. We’ll see how he and his buddies deal with that.”

  We had dinner and watched TV, drinking slow beers, staying away from the hard stuff. By the time Edward showed up, I had switched to coffee.

  “You look comfortable,” I said. Edward was wearing jeans, boots, and a t-shirt. It was the first time I’d seen him wear anything but his business clothes. “Are those the bank records?”

  “Yes.” He handed me the thick folder. “Give me a margarita on the rocks with a shot of Herradura on the side,” Edward told the bartender. Cody raised his eyes and nodded in approval.

  The copies of Sylvester Bascom’s canceled checks from the last six months covered thirty pages. I flipped through the sheets, looking for large amounts, scanning the payees for Osterlund or Tuma. Out of the dozens of checks, accounting for over $40,000 of expenditures, not one looked like it may have been used to buy or otherwise finance drugs.