Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (27 page)

“You’ve never met him?”

“Nope. And I’m on the early flight out of town tomorrow. I’m done with this crazy shit.”

“You know what, Jimmy?” Cody said. “That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say. But we’re not done here yet.”

I hiked my boot up on the bench next to Jimmy and leaned into his face. “Who’s next in command at HCU, now that Norton’s dead?”

Jimmy snickered. “My guess would be Tom.” Then he started laughing harder.

“I get the joke,” Cody said. “Where does Tom live?”

“Don’t know the exact address. Some dump he’s renting near where Norton lived.”

I looked at Cody, and he shrugged.

“Let’s get out of here,” I sighed.

• • •

As we drove off, I tried to make some sense of all the scraps of information we’d picked up. Every stone we turned over revealed something, but the problem was, none of it gave me any decent idea how to track down Loohan. Probably the most solid clue was Jimmy’s remark that Loohan sometimes stayed outdoors. How the hell do you follow up on a lead like that?

I thought back to our last conversation with Joe Norton. I could still see the smirk on his face when he suggested Loohan would find us when he was ready. Maybe the best tactic at this point would be to wait Loohan out. It was a weak, defensive position, but we were running out of options.

Another thing was nagging at me. It seemed both the cops and the man in charge of security at Pistol Pete’s were interested in Loohan, probably because he was a suspect in the murder of Norton. But the bullet that ripped a trench in Cody’s shoulder was a small caliber round—I could tell by its relatively light report—while the rounds that blew Norton to hell were definitely large caliber. If Loohan owned anything more than a small firearm, he would have chosen the larger piece when he shot at us, given the distance. My guess was Loohan carried a small weapon, a .25 cal pistol, or maybe even a .22.

So if Loohan didn’t kill Norton, who did? Who’d have motivation? At least that answer was pretty obvious—the Diablos Sierra gang. Would they be pissed enough to send a professional hitter after Norton? Given that HCU was moving in on the Mexican’s territory, it was fathomable.

But did it really matter? The turf war between the Mexicans and the white trash gang, the involvement of the crooked cops and maybe even casino-based mobsters, none of it was my concern unless it led to Loohan. And so far, I saw no indication any of it did. Loohan seemed to be a lone wolf, a free agent, his affiliations temporary, his motivations unknown and perhaps unattached to any of the troubles brewing in South Lake Tahoe.

Or maybe, I thought wistfully, maybe he was just gone.

• • •

The white Switton house looked like an alien ship when we drove by, the industrial lighting so strong I had to squint against the glare. No cars were out front, aside from John Switton’s Lincoln, parked in the driveway.

“Looks like no one’s home but that tough old bird,” Cody said. “What do you think?”

“If the band was rehearsing we’d see a car or two. Let’s go. I have no desire to roust John Switton.”

“What do you think of him?”

“You mean, do I think he’s part of the goombahs at Pistol Pete’s? I don’t know. He’s definitely not from around here.”

“Did you like how he threw Tom around?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

“He ain’t no ordinary working stiff, I’ll tell you that.”

I hung a U-turn at the end of the street and drove back out to 50. Part of me wanted a drink, but I had a headache and really just wanted to lie down and turn my brain off. The strain of the last week was beginning to wear on me. I felt like I was in a boxing match with an invisible man.

When we pulled into my driveway and my headlights flashed across the front yard, I thought my eyes must have been playing tricks on me.

“What the…?” I said, and backed up my truck, pointing the headlights more directly at the broad L-shaped lawn that reached from my back fence to the front of my lot. I turned off the ignition, and Cody and I walked to the edge of the grass.

“Good god,” Cody said, as we stood staring. Something, most likely a spinning off-road motorcycle tire, had carved a pentagram into the lawn, the points of the star reaching from my porch to the opposite fence. Chunks of sod were littered about, and the siding next to my front door was streaked with a muddy spray. I bent down and examined a particularly deep section of the damage. The imprint of a knobby dirt bike tire was unmistakable.

I went back to my truck and returned with a flashlight. The waist-high post and rail fence separating my yard from the sidewalk along the street ended about two feet shy of a taller fence marking the adjacent boundary of my property. A trail of soil and grass led from my lawn and out the passage between the two fences, across the sidewalk and down the street.

“You know,” I said, “When I bought this place, I always wondered why the fence stopped short here.”

“Probably so the owners could walk around it.”

I looked at Cody, a pained smile on my face. “We need to find this rat bastard and exterminate him,” he said. “I’m serious.”

When I didn’t respond, Cody said, “You surprised at this?”

“Not really. Stunned, yeah, but not surprised.” I stared back at my ruined lawn, and felt like a fool for clinging to the hope that Loohan had fled town.

“Let’s go inside,” Cody said.

“You need coffee?” I asked.

“Why?”

“I want to take a walk.”

“Where?”

“Along the stream out there,” I said, pointing toward the meadow behind my house.

Cody raised his eyebrows. “Let’s suit up and go hunting.”

• • •

A nearly full moon lit the creek and the thick grasslands sweeping out toward the snowcapped peaks a mile away. We crept along a trail that ran aside the stream, stopping every ten paces to listen for sounds that didn’t belong. Did it make sense for Loohan to camp close to where I lived? No, but I’d given up trying to assign logic to his behavior. I was still trying to assimilate that not only was Loohan still around, but now he was taunting me, letting me know he was here and apparently not at all concerned about the threat I posed. But it was more than that. Within the blatant desecration of my property, his message was clear. He wanted me to know he had the ability to take me out at will.

I suppose he could have left some campy, threatening note taped to my door, telling me I better be looking over my shoulder. He could have written out his intention to do me harm, to settle the score for both my ongoing efforts to arrest him and my apprehension of his best friend. But that wasn’t Loohan’s way. He let his actions speak instead. In doing so, he remained less tangible and more ominous.

We came to a marshy section of the path and veered away from the creek, into the scrub where the ground was more firm. The rushing water should have obscured the sound of our boots crunching over the underlying dry grass, but I cringed with every step. I crouched as we moved forward, head low, my Beretta trained on a cluster of trees thirty feet ahead. The straps of my body armor dug into the tops of my shoulders, distracting me momentarily. I stopped, and Cody came up from behind, my sawed-off scattergun in his hands. We paused, staring into the trees. Then we heard a faint ticking sound.

Cody circled to the left, and I continued toward the trees, which I could now see were four large aspens, one which had fallen and rested at a sharp angle against another. Beneath them was a dense clump of deadfall. Whether there was a clearing inside the thicket was impossible to say. I moved one step at a time, lifting my knees high and bringing them down slowly.

The ticking sound again, definitely metallic. Cody had reached the tangle of branches and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, aiming into the brush. He nodded at me and I kept moving until I saw a trail of flattened grass. My automatic clenched in both hands, I inched my way along, until I could see the edge of a clearing.

In two running steps I burst forward, my arms locked, my finger poised on the trigger. In the sights of my firearm was the forehead of a skinny man sitting cross-legged, a fork in one hand, a tin can in the other, his food half-chewed in his open mouth. A small, battery powered lamp rested between his legs. He had light-colored hair and was perhaps twenty-five years old.

“Shit,” I said. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Darrel.” His eyes were bulbous, like two eggs with pupils. A forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor was propped against his side.

“Clear, Cody,” I said.

“Right,” he said, and I heard him coming around the thicket.

“How long have you been here tonight, Darrel?”

“Since sundown,” he stammered. I put my piece back in my shoulder holster.

“Have you heard a motorcycle out on the trail?”

“No, sir.”

“You got a cell phone?”

“I do. But it ain’t always charged.”

“If you see a man on a dirt bike camping out here, call me. If it’s who I’m looking for, I’ll buy you enough beer to keep you drunk through the summer.”

The thought was enough to put a wide smile on his face. I gave him my business card, then Cody and I hiked back to the creek.

“Haven’t seen any motorcycle tracks,” Cody said.

“The trail turns too narrow for a dirt bike in about a half mile,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”

We crossed the stream when we reached that point, a steep, rocky section, the fast water glinted with silver in the moonlight. Then we doubled back on the opposite side, slipping in and out of the shadows wordlessly, smelling the air for traces of exhaust, scanning the dirt for tread marks. Nothing.

It was midnight when we got back to my house. Before we went in, I checked the windows and back door. Satisfied nothing had been tampered with, we went inside. We stood in the dark interior, looking out the front window at the damage done to my lawn

“I’d say fifty-fifty we’ll see the cocksucker before sun up,” Cody said.

“He’s unpredictable, but at least we know he’s still in town.”

Cody tapped the barrel of my shotgun against the window glass.

“Here’s my prediction,” he said. “Jason Loohan’s got a death wish—his own.”

I shrugged out of my shoulder holster and made sure the safety on the Beretta was clicked off.

“I’m going to sleep out here,” I said, setting my piece on the coffee table.

Cody pulled down the shades on the front window. “Tomorrow,” he said, and ambled off to the guest room.

Boots on, Kevlar vest heavy on my chest, I lay on the couch. I dozed for a while, more in a state of semi-slumber than deep sleep. At around two I checked the house and walked out to my porch. I peered down the street and then out to the meadow, and after a minute, I came back in. Loohan was probably sleeping soundly in a hotel room somewhere, I thought.

I lay down again, closed my eyes, and hoped for some degree of rest. I rose once more at five and double-checked the doors and windows, then sat on my couch with my pistol in hand. The dawn came slowly.

A
t first light that morning, Pete Saxton took a cup of coffee to the cedar table on his deck, and watched the sun rise over a granite cliff layered with shelves of snow. Beneath the rock face, mist rose from the trees. The green mountainside stretched for miles along the horizon.

He lit his first Camel of the day, coughed up a wad of phlegm, and hawked it onto his lawn. It was two in the morning when he’d got home last night, after a visit to a woman in Truckee he sometimes dated. The horny bitch, he thought, snickering as he remembered how she begged for it up the ass. He’d planned on being on the road by midnight at the outside, but she was insatiable. God, he was tired. But he’d been waking at 6:00
A.M.
for so many years he couldn’t sleep later no matter how hard he tried.

Exhaling a stream of smoke, Saxton’s thoughts returned to the murder of Joe Norton. The fingerprint and ballistics results would be in by the afternoon. Hopefully they would provide some direction. Saxton stared out into the sky, which had already turned a tranquil baby blue, soft puffs of clouds dispersing as the sun came full over the ridgeline. The scene looked like something from a postcard, but it did nothing to ease the trepidation idling in Saxton’s gut.

When Saxton and Boyce had gone to Pistol Pete’s to tell Severino his main man at HCU was dead, it had not gone well. Not that Saxton expected it to, but Severino’s reaction was worse than anticipated, especially from a man who seemed almost incapable of emotion.

“
What?
” he’d hissed, when Saxton relayed the news. Severino’s normally dead eyes came alive as if jolted by electric shock.

“We think it happened around two in the morning,” Saxton said. “Someone shot him while he slept.”

“Unloaded a magazine into him,” Boyce added.

Severino rose from his desk, his face taught, as if the skin was stretched over an axe blade. He came around and walked behind the chairs where Saxton and Boyce sat. The office became silent. Severino faced the door and pressed his hands together, like he was performing an isometric exercise. After a minute he released his breath and turned to the two detectives he was paying off.

“Who do you think did it?” he said.

“I think we’re looking at two possibilities,” Saxton said, swiveling in his chair to meet Severino’s dark stare. “First, the guy you said Norton had taken down south, Jason Loohan. From what I gather, he’s a treacherous son of a bitch.”

“What would be his motivation?” Severino said.

“I’m not sure, yet, but I consider him a person of interest.”

Severino curled his upper lip, his nostrils twitching as if the air was fouled.

“What else?” he said.

“I think we have to consider the possibility this is retaliation from the Mexicans.”

“I thought you said they were a bunch of pissant spics.”

“That’s still what I think,” Saxton said. “But they’d definitely have motive.”

“Who’s gonna take over for Norton?” Boyce said.

Severino ignored the question. He walked back behind his desk and sat, leaning forward on his elbows.