Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (28 page)

“Your weekly envelopes are on hold for now.”

“On hold?” Boyce said. “For what?”

“Norton was running the show,” Severino said, addressing Saxton. “Without him, it creates problems. I need time to come up with a solution.”

“What do you want us to do in the meantime?”

“I suggest you go find who killed Joe Norton,” Severino said, his eyes boring into the cops. “We need to eliminate the threat, don’t you think?”

• • •

Saxton finished his coffee and went inside to eat breakfast. He didn’t quite know what to make of Severino’s claim that Norton’s death prevented the gang’s ability to do business, and the payoffs would be on hold. Maybe it was Severino’s way of asserting the money was not automatic, that the pay was based on the gang’s performance. Saxton shook his head at the notion. He and Boyce were being paid to allow the gang to do business, and on the side, discourage the competition. They’d done their job.

Oh well, as long as the payments resumed soon, it wasn’t really a problem. Especially since Saxton had searched Norton’s room and found nearly twenty grand in cash. Split in two, it was enough money for Boyce to pull himself out of debt, and for Saxton to pay off a good chunk of his home upgrade bills. Not bad, for an unexpected bonus.

After eating, Saxton returned to his backyard and sat listening to the quiet gurgle of the hot tub. He kept on turning over the issues surrounding Norton’s death, trying to reach conclusions. For the time being, none of the dots connected. What motivation would Jason Loohan have to kill Norton? None that Saxton could guess at. The more probable scenario involved the Diablos Sierra, but they were nothing but street punks, and Norton’s death was no doubt done by a skilled hitter. He was almost positive none of the Mexicans who’d been hanging out at the Pine Mountain Apartments were capable of such a job.

Screw it, then. He stamped out his cigarette and went back inside. At least one thing was clear: Saxton’s job was to find Norton’s murderer. He was being paid by the Nevada PD, as well as Vic Severino, to do so. Time to quit chasing ghosts in his mind, and go to work.

Saxton showered and dressed in creased slacks and a beige sports coat. He spun the barrel of his .38 and snapped the revolver into the holster on his ribcage, and at eight sharp pulled up in front of Dave Boyce’s doublewide trailer. He honked the horn twice and waited.

A minute later he honked again, and when Boyce didn’t appear, Saxton shut off the ignition with a curse. An impatient frown taking hold on his face, he climbed from his car and walked to the front door. It was definitely time for Boyce to get himself a set of wheels, even if all he could afford was a freaking scooter, maybe like the kind they rented out to teenagers who zipped around South Lake Tahoe all summer long.

Saxton pounded on the aluminum frame of the screen door, the clattery thumps loud in the quiet morning. The neighboring units in the mobile home park were still, apparently inhabited by people who didn’t wake and leave for their jobs at a normal hour.

“Come on, Dave,” he said, knocking again, the sound reverberating against the metal siding. Saxton stood on the concrete porch, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Then he blew out his breath, swung open the screen door, and turned the knob of the front door. It was unlocked. As he pushed it open a few inches, a tiny current of concern pulsed in his chest.

“Dave!” he shouted. He reached in and flicked on the light switch. The doorway opened directly to the main room, the couch, coffee table, and easy chair nondescript and utilitarian. When Boyce didn’t answer, Saxton stepped inside, the skin around his eyes tight as he slowly scanned the room. Down the hallway, the door to the bathroom was open, the light off and no sound from the shower. His fingers slid beneath his coat and released the holster snap holding his revolver. Gun in hand, he moved down the hallway. With each step his muscles grew tighter, until he finally stood at the door to the single bedroom. He banged on it with his fist.

“Goddammit, Dave,” he said. He waited a long moment, then, standing aside the doorway with his back to the wall, he cracked opened the door and peeked into the room. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat, then alarm flooded his body. He opened the door fully and stood transfixed.

The damage to Dave Boyce’s body was horrific. He lay face down across the bed, his nude corpse torn with entrance wounds the size of nickels, blood everywhere, the sheets soaked, the walls splattered and trails of red running downward. His head was turned to reveal his profile, his face blank, one eye shot out, a fist-sized piece of skull hanging from his scalp to reveal the gray maw of his brains.

Saxton backed out of the room. He closed his eyes and leaned against the hallway wall and tried to control his breathing. A creeping surge of nausea rose in his throat, and he hurriedly walked outside into the sunlight. He went to his car and leaned against it. His fingers felt thick and insensate as he dialed 911.

“911 Emergency, who’s calling, please?”

“Cheryl, this is Pete Saxton. I’m at Dave Boyce’s place. He’s been shot to death.”

The woman began asking questions, just doing her job, and Saxton stayed on the line with her until the black and whites showed up.

“Jesus, Pete, what happened?” said one of the uniforms, a craggy, older cop who spoke incessantly about his grandkids and his plans to retire.

“Detectives on the way?” Saxton said.

“Yeah. Galanis and McMann.”

“Great.” Saxton studied the tops of his shoes. The only two cops in the department as corrupt as he was. Self-serving, without loyalty to anything but their bank accounts.

Within a minute an ambulance wailed down the street, followed by the Douglas County medical examiner and an unmarked sedan. Nick Galanis and his partner, McMann, whose first name Saxton couldn’t remember, climbed out of their car and ducked under the crime scene tape the uniforms had strung from one large pine to another, effectively boxing off the sidewalk and the porch of Boyce’s home. Galanis, six foot, one eighty, flashed a grin at Saxton. Totally inappropriate, but Galanis always grinned, regardless of the situation. Devastating, Saxton had once heard a female suspect describe his smile. The detective had a full head of curly black hair, never missed a day at the gym, and was campaigning for promotion to captain, the position still vacant after Old Cunningham had a heart attack and finally made official his retirement. For the time being, Galanis had been appointed as acting captain.

McMann, in contrast, was bald and squat and looked like a pig. He’d arrived in Nevada about a year ago, amid rumors of trouble with the Chicago PD. A recovering alcoholic, he attended meetings and often emitted a palpable aura of frustration and unhappiness with his sobriety. “Poor bastard’s got it bad,” Saxton once commented to Boyce, watching McMann suffer through a booze-soaked department party.

Saxton stood before the detectives. Galanis’s grin dissolved, his dark eyes scrutinizing.

“You all right, Pete? Why don’t you take a seat in your car while we go inside?”

“Okay,” Saxton said, not interested in Galanis’s disingenuous concern. He watched the two go into Boyce’s trailer, along with the ME, then opened the passenger door to his Ford and sat facing out, elbows on his knees. “Think,” he told himself. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his nerves, but the nausea he’d been fighting suddenly flooded his mouth, and he spewed a bilious froth into the gutter. Coughing and spitting, he waved away an officer who approached, leaned back, and pressed his palms to his eyes.

He allowed himself five minutes, then rinsed his mouth with bottled water and grabbed a handful of mints from a tin container. Did Pete Saxton feel any personal grief his partner was dead? Not much, he had to admit. Nor was he concerned Dave Boyce’s absence would disrupt his arrangement with Severino. Instead, his angst was centered on one fact that was growing increasingly clear to him: Norton and Boyce were murdered by the same very competent killer, and Saxton was probably next on the list. If not for him being away from his home until two in the morning, he might well already be dead.

Shaking a cigarette from his pack, Saxton rose from the car and saw a crowd had begun to gather. A few trashy housewives, three teenagers with skateboards who should have been heading to school, and a man with a camera next to a woman writing on a notepad. Probably reporters from the
Tahoe Daily Tribune
. How’d they get here so goddamned fast? Some rubbernecking neighbor must have called them.

The reporter, a pudgy, thirtyish man, pointed the camera at Saxton. Blocking his face with his hand, Saxton ducked back into the Ford. In the rearview mirror, he saw the man snap a shot of the car, then begin walking up along the passenger side. The reporter grew larger as he neared the car door.

Saxton thrust the door open and jumped out, almost hitting the reporter, who stumbled back and raised his camera. The man’s face recoiled in shock when Saxton grabbed his forearm and twisted, bringing him to his knees.

“Let go of me. You can’t—”

“You’re interfering with police work.” Saxton pried the camera from the reporter’s sweaty fingers. “This will be returned to you after it’s been determined none of the photos will compromise our investigation.”

“I have every right to—”

“Invade my privacy?” Saxton snarled, blood pumping in his temples. He waved over two uniforms who’d just come out of Boyce’s place.

“This citizen needs to be detained until we’re done here,” Saxton said. “Cuff him and stick him in a squad car. And tell the bitch over there to keep her distance or she’ll be joining him.”

By that time, another half-dozen spectators had congregated on the sidewalk across the street, staring in rapt attention, as if they were virgins witnessing a live sex act.

“Fucking ghouls,” Saxton said. “Tell Galanis I’ll be at my desk. I’m out of here.”

• • •

The squad room was empty and quiet. Saxton drank a can of soda and smoked and tried to anticipate what was to come. A cop killing was an event that would shake even the hardest veterans. The department’s reaction would no doubt be fueled by emotion. Everything would come under scrutiny. Standard operating procedures that sufficed in day-to-day investigations would be considered woefully inadequate. Arresting the party responsible for the fallen officer would dominate the lives of all ten detectives working for Douglas County. The fact Dave Boyce was not well liked was irrelevant—he was part of a sworn brotherhood that watched one another’s back. No one gets away with killing a cop. The intensity level would be cranked to full throttle.

If an arrest wasn’t made promptly, it was likely the state police, or maybe even the FBI, would be brought in. That could prove disastrous. It didn’t take much to imagine the Pandora’s Box an outside police agency might crack open if they began poking around. At stake was not only Saxton’s career, but also Severino’s drug enterprise, which of course led right back to Saxton.

Saxton stood abruptly, cursing as his knee hit the desk. He needed to go alert Severino of the shit storm brewing. If Severino was smart, he’d hunker down, pull the HCU boys off the street, maybe go on a long vacation. Saxton climbed into his Ford and swung out to the highway toward Pistol Pete’s, his foot mashed to the floorboard, the tires howling, the sedan pulling ahead like a racehorse out of the gate. As he neared the casino, he dialed Severino’s untraceable cell.

“We need to talk,” Saxton said, bouncing into the parking lot. The black glass of the casino hotel looked superheated in the sun. Beyond the building the lake was white, as if bleached of color.

“Make it around three,” Severino said.

“Now. I’m outside the casino. Meet me at the back door.”

“It better be important.”

Saxton hung up and walked across the black asphalt to the Employees Only door. It opened, and he slipped inside, silently following Severino down the hallway to his office.

“What now?” Severino said, sitting behind his desk.

Saxton looked around the windowless room as if for the first time, and something about it seemed surreal to him. He blinked, then turned his eyes to Severino.

“My partner is dead. Dave Boyce was murdered last night. It looks like it was done by the same guy who killed Norton.”

After a moment, Severino said, “Are you sure?”

“He was torn apart in his bedroom by multiple large caliber rounds. Same as Norton was. Ballistics will confirm it by the end of the day.”

Severino cleared his throat and clicked his pen a few times before setting it down.

“How do you see it?” he said.

“The whole situation is a three-ring rat-fuck is how I see it,” Saxton said. “I think someone’s decided to shut HCU down. Someone who’s not afraid to kill a cop. Guess who’s probably next on the hit list? Me. After that, maybe you.”

Severino pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “Do you need a drink, Pete?”

“No. I’ve got to get back to the squad room. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

“Do you think we underestimated the Mexicans?”

“It’s possible. We’re gonna be all over them like stink on shit, I can tell you that.”

“Good.”

“Now, listen to me,” Saxton said. “If we don’t make an arrest in a hurry, the state police or even the FBI might be brought in. If that happens, things could get out of control.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they may find links back to you. Is that clear enough?”

“That would be unfortunate. For both of us.”

“You’re goddamned right it would be. If I were you, I’d say it would be a good time for a vacation. Like maybe something overseas, until this blows over.”

Severino’s fingers stroked his jaw, the dark grain of his skin shining in the florescent lighting.

“You make any progress on finding Jason Loohan?” he said.

“No. I don’t see how he’s a player in this—not as a suspect in Norton or Boyce’s murder, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Severino stared at his desktop for a long moment, then raised his eyes.

“When you found Norton dead, did you find any money?”

“Yeah, a couple hundred bucks,” Saxton said. He knew Severino would eventually ask this, and he wasn’t surprised the question came at a time when Severino thought he could catch him off balance. But Saxton was too smart to fall into that trap.