A Nose for Justice Page 5

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t find him.”

  Baxter whispered loud enough so King could hear. “More old bones.”

  King couldn’t help it. He laughed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  That same evening, the icy roads of downtown Reno could be negotiated if a driver rolled along slowly. Fourth Street, seedy but not without edgy energy, was denuded of pedestrians as was all of Reno. The topless bar called Jugs, however, did entertain some patrons.

  Teton Benson lived in a sparse apartment walk-up next door to Jugs. The doorway to both the apartment building and the bar was recessed. Neither landlord wasted money on good lighting—an advantage for the bar; a disadvantage for the residents of the walk-up. Teton carried a small flashlight.

  He knew most people on the block. He was friendly and good-looking in a worn-down fashion with his sandy hair, straight teeth, clean jeans and sweater. He sat at the bar.

  Next to him, tenuously perched on a barstool, sat Egon Utrecht, towering above Teton at six foot four.

  “Thought you’d be at work.” Tets sipped a Coke.

  “Bare bones crew. It’s a good night to take off. And it gives Lisa”—he mentioned his assistant chef—“the chance to run the show without too much stress.”

  “She’s good-looking.” Tets smiled and nodded at one of the working girls, a triumph against gravity, as she teetered by on high heels.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Sweetheart.”

  As Teton never had money to lure the girls or buy more drinks, he knew Lark, her stage name, had purposefully sauntered by because she wanted an introduction to this prosperous-looking man.

  “Lark, this is Egon Utrecht.”

  She squealed, “The famous chef!”

  Egon nodded. “The same.”

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here.” She moved her most prominent feature closer to his chest.

  “Teton and I know each other.” Egon fished a twenty out of his pocket. “Next time I’m here, I’d like to know you better, but for now I need to talk to Tets.”

  Smart girl, she took the money, then ran her right hand suggestively up his forearm. “You’re very generous. Thank you.”

  She left with Teton’s eyes following her. “Lark’s a good girl. This is a tough place to be.”

  “If the heating ever fails, it will be more than tough.” Egon half smiled. “Thank you again for the business tip. I’d like to do more business. I’d like to meet your contact.”

  “Well, that I can’t promise. It’s up to him, but he’s working on a new deal. It won’t turn around as fast as the last one, but it will be big.”

  “I want in.”

  “I’ll tell him.” Teton’s eyes again followed Lark, who apart from her Silicon protuberances, looked much more natural than the other girls.

  “You made enough money. Buy her some earrings. Spend a little. She’ll lay down for you,” Egon urged.

  “If I spend a little, everyone on Fourth Street will know. Not a good idea.”

  Egon considered this. “Good thinking. Hadn’t thought of that.” He then suggested, “But what if you gave her something for Christmas that wouldn’t be a tipoff? You could tell the bartender and uh—”

  “Lark.”

  “Tell Lark that you’ve been saving.”

  Teton smiled broadly. “Might work.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the new project?”

  “Only that it’s north of Reno. I’ll let you know when the time is right to buy in.”

  “Good.” Egon checked his Panerai watch, its simple clean blackface contrasting with the steel bracelet.

  Teton observed watches, rings, belt buckles, and boots—indicators of a man’s willingness to spend bucks if he had them. This watch announced that Egon was not on food stamps nor did he run with the pack.

  Teton asked, voice low, “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, sometimes the stress at work gets me. I’ll drink champagne but I won’t toot. One thing at a time. I miss the coke, don’t get me wrong. I like the lift at about eleven at night but I’m sticking to my promise. Next year, I’ll try to give up the drinking.”

  “I don’t know if it will make us live even longer but it sure will seem longer.” Teton laughed.

  Egon laughed with him. “Yeah. What about you?”

  “I’m okay. When I hear from my contact I’ll let you know. I figured we could meet here tonight because no one is here really and my place is as cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra.”

  “Buy Lark some sparkly earrings. Warm you right up.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reeking of the self-importance that made him so loathsome to others, Oliver Hitchens placed a thick report on the desk of George W. Ball, overlord of all equipment for Silver State Resource Management. George was called George W. to his face.

  It usually provoked a tiny smile and much-used comeback: “I’m the Decider.”

  People working for utilities, waste management, or what Silver State termed “resource management” usually had to get to sites or the office, no matter what. In Silver State’s case the resources being managed were water, water rights, and delivery of water to customers.

  In a state where the average annual rainfall was seven inches, water was as valuable as Jeep’s gold. Given the rush of immigrants from California, which is how locals thought of them, water was becoming an even more critical issue. Even without these people abandoning the disastrous state of California, the longtime residents of Washoe County already stressed the environment and services.

  “Had a devil of a time.” Oliver sat across from George W. without being asked. “The escaping water turned to ice, the big lug nuts were frozen stiff. Had to use a propane torch to just get the ice off while being careful not to melt any metal. I was filthy by the time it was over and as cold as I’ve ever been in my life.”

  George W. knew what Oliver was. Distasteful as he found Oliver’s personality, and his penchant for taking credit for other people’s work, he got the job done. He drove those under him mercilessly. He did not swell payroll and he was often right about just when to keep an old piece of equipment running and when to replace it. Oliver saved the company money. George W. also noted that Oliver made no mention of Craig Locke who, in the area at the time, had braved the weather to see if he could help. Oliver curtly dismissed him since he had no engineering expertise, instead of thanking him.

  George couldn’t help tweaking him. “Twinkie and Bunny weren’t up to the job?”

  Shifting in his seat. “Good as they are, they have to be managed.”

  Since Twinkie and Bunny had cellphones with cameras, they had taken the precaution of sending photos of themselves the minute Oliver drove away or, more accurately, slid down the hill so George W. could see them encased in ice. They sent on a photo of Jake, too, snow covered, as well as Craig Locke who was in the area and had stopped by to see if they needed anything, like a hot drink. Craig knew little about equipment repair.

  “Quick thinking getting Jake Tanner out there.” George W. threw Oliver a morsel of a compliment.

  Oliver puffed up. “What an old gossip he is. Worse than a woman.”

  “Oliver, according to you, that’s not possible.” George W. continued to check the contents of the folder. “Maybe he’s on estrogen. Estrogen poisoning.”

  “Next time I’ll call him Jennifer.” For Oliver, this was ribald humor.

  Moments passed.

  George W. closed the folder. “I will read this carefully. I do thank you for responding to the crisis swiftly, in terrible conditions. I’ll make sure Darryl knows,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Oliver felt wonderful.

  “The pump was bombed. Why not the line?”

  “A pro would have done as much damage as possible. I’m thinking this was a disgruntled person. We’ve come under a lot of criticism.” Oliver lifted both hands and made quotation mark signs around his words. “We haven’t stolen anyone’s w
ater. We have legally bought the rights.”

  “Do you know how it was done?”

  “Not yet. All I know is that the explosive device was small. No chunks of large metal were around.”

  “The ground is still covered with snow. Once it melts, go back up. It would be easy to miss something in those conditions.”

  “Already planned to do so,” Oliver replied.

  “Last question.”

  Oliver straightened. “Shoot.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “None that I can prove.”

  “So how about some you can’t prove?”

  Quickly dropping the cagey pose, Oliver said, “California. I think it’s Friends of Sierra County or Washoe Water Rights.”

  In 1889, California refused to recognize Nevada’s claim to manage water on the eastern flank of the Sierra Nevadas. Since the headwaters of the Truckee, Carson, and Walker Rivers are all located in California, this created problems that flared up to this day.

  When George W. didn’t respond right away, Oliver grew more vehement. “Millions upon millions of dollars can be extracted from right under Sierra County! Given the economic crisis in California especially, that state might get over its jealousy over its water when citizens realize the money that water could bring in. The water sent to Reno—that’s what they’re all after. Some pose as conservationists and all that shit, but those people are ruthless. And they never give us credit for recapturing used water. I hate them.”

  “So why blow up our pump?” asked George.

  “It makes a point, doesn’t it? The point being that Reno needs water bad. I’m willing to bet this isn’t the last problem we will have and I’m not so sure there won’t be some problems in Sierra County.”

  “Those ranchers are pulling their own water out of the ground.”

  “Yes, they are. And those ranchers who still want to ranch and who have enough cushion to weather California’s meltdown, if that’s possible, will fight.”

  “We’re always the bad guys.” George W. peered over his expensive tortoiseshell glasses.

  “I’m proud to work for Silver State,” Oliver boasted. “We manage carefully. Our leadership understands that wiping out ranchers is not in the long-term interest of this state, or even our profits ultimately. Wild as it sounds, a company such as ours could be nationalized, for lack of a better term. If enough public pressure is brought to bear, we could be taken over by the state government—or far worse, the federal.”

  George W. folded his hands together. “That’s a pretty outrageous scenario.”

  “Outrageous times,” Oliver shot back. “But we are well managed. That is a shield.”

  George W. wanted to believe that but lately he was harboring quiet doubts. If more water could be sent into Reno, the profits would eventually climb into the billions. It would take an unusual Board of Directors, a remarkable CEO, to put other needs first, like agriculture.

  “Right,” George W. said softly.

  “And one more thing. Some residents of Sierra want our money. The county in California next to Las Vegas wants to sell its water, too.”

  “Las Vegas is so close to California, why don’t we cede it to them?” George W. chuckled, glad for a moment not to consider the ramifications of Oliver’s thoughts.

  “I like Las Vegas. Nevada enjoys a healthy revenue stream from Las Vegas.”

  Inwardly sighing, George smiled tightly. “You’re right, Oliver. Time I get over my prejudice, but I have a hard time taking seriously a place where men have pectoral implants and then gyrate on stage with shirts open to their navels.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By Friday, things had reverted back to normal in Washoe County. The airport had reopened on Tuesday. Flurries continued, and flights had been cut back or planes had sat on the tarmac thanks to fluctuating visibility. By now the storm was headed into Kansas, finally blowing itself apart on the westernmost ridges of the fertile Ohio Valley—Johnny Appleseed country.

  Roads were cleared, though a few back roads, like Dixie Lane up in Red Rock, could still send one spinning. Pete and Lonnie returned to their normal duties: traffic arrests, drug busts, domestic violence, and investigating suicides in hotels and motels in the big town.

  Although Reno was famous for its divorce laws—after mining diminished, the true impetus to the beginnings of prosperity on the Truckee River in the twentieth century—the city was now becoming infamous for its epidemic of suicides. The Chamber of Commerce published no statistics, nor was this peculiarity mentioned when the area was touted, but the numbers were close to double the national average.

  Pete and Lonnie had been called to one just at the end of their shift yesterday. They viewed the usual middle-aged male who had chosen to blow his brains out in the Jolly Roger Motel. A nautical theme seemed out of place in the high desert, but in this case the skull and crossbones wasn’t.

  As it so often happened during these sorrowful events, a motel maid discovered the body. She screamed, knocking over her cart as she flew down the dimly lit corridor to find the manager, Kyle Kamitsis. Himself in his early forties, he’d managed this dispirited place for six years. This was his thirteenth suicide. Maybe it was the skull and crossbones.

  The deceased had used a .38 with a silencer, which made it better since the hangings, slashed wrists, and shotgun blasts created a much bigger mess. And like twelve of the other stiffs found at the Jolly Roger, this man had driven over from California to end his life.

  Those who committed suicide were generally unconcerned over the trouble or shock to others, which made the silencer odd.

  “Didn’t disturb the other guests,” Lonnie quipped when he spotted the silencer. The gun was gripped in Samuel Peruzzi’s right hand. His wallet and car keys rested on the nightstand along with his rings, one glass, the newspaper, and empty beer bottles.

  Pete thought that in most cases suicide was one of the most self-centered acts in which a human could engage. Then again, he reminded himself, he’d felt despair, pain, remorse, grief, and anger, but perhaps never the spiral downward that a suicidal person felt. He figured he’d never know, but he devoutly wished those residents of the Golden State would kill themselves back across the border.

  On the following day, there’d been no suicides, no wrecks, and no petty thefts by ten A.M. After Pete called the dispatcher, he had headed to Pump 19 in the police vehicle.

  Lonnie, fiddling with his pocketknife, grumbled from the passenger seat. “How did I squash the bolster?”

  “Is it nickel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Must be your impressive brute strength.”

  Lonnie opened the blade again, hearing the slight scrape as he did so. “Balls.”

  “Exactly.”

  They both laughed.

  The slick incline up to the pump caused the SUV one small skid. Twinkie and Bunny, in a regular Silver State Resource Management vehicle, awaited them. As Pete pulled up, both doors opened simultaneously.

  Pete and Lonnie climbed out and were greeted by the frigid air. Then the group walked over to the pump.

  “Where’s Oliver?” Peter wondered.

  “Didn’t tell him,” Bunny answered.

  “Smart move.” Pete smiled. “I’ll call on him at his office. Make him feel important.”

  “You’re a good man.” Twinkie smiled.

  As the official stenographer, Lonnie flipped open his notebook. He took off his right glove and looked imploringly at Pete to speed it up.

  “Have either of you two seen any trucks or cars around here? I know you check these pumps regularly. Anyone ever come down the drive whom you didn’t know?”

  “Nah. If they did, we’d stop them,” Twinkie responded. “No one ever comes up to these pumps but us.”

  “Lynn Lloyd’s been up here,” Bunny contradicted Twinkie.

  “Oh, yeah. Forgot about her.”

  Lynn Lloyd was the master of a pack of foxhounds, called appropriately enough, Red Rock Hounds.


  “Bunny, that was a year ago,” Twinkie said.

  “Looking for hounds?” Pete knew the master.

  “Yeah. Found ’em later. But I don’t think she has much interest in our pump.” Twinkie offered his opinion.

  “I don’t, either, but I still need to ask these questions. Has anyone threatened you?”

  “Me?” Twinkie was surprised.

  Bunny smarted off. “Twinkie believes he is universally loved.”

  “Fuck you,” Twinkie replied without malice.

  “What about you, Bunny?”

  “Only my ex-wife.”

  “Which one?” Twinkie enjoyed a swift revenge.

  “Number two.”

  “I know the feeling.” Pete nodded. “Has anyone to your knowledge ever threatened Silver State? A letter, an email, text?”

  “The usual.” Twinkie put his gloved hands in his pockets as his fingers were getting numb.

  “What’s the usual?”

  “Protestors who say the company’s trying to buy up everyone’s water rights. That’s standard, but every now and then we’ll get a complaint that a pump site is an eyesore and can’t we landscape it?” A flash of indignation crossed Twinkie’s ruddy face. “Landscape them with what? One newcomer from across the border suggested we plant maples. Maples in high desert! Jesus, why don’t these people go home?”

  For a second Pete recalled the sight of yesterday’s corpse sprawled in the motel room. That one had gone home all right. Funny, how most suicides who shoot themselves do it in bed.

  Bunny piped up, “We’ve been asking ourselves who would blow up Pump Nineteen. All we can come up with is—what’s the phrase now, the bullshit phrase, oh yeah, someone mentally incapacitated or suffering complications from Asshole Syndrome? This was a nutcase. That’s all I can figure.”

  “Silver State has plenty of detractors.” Pete folded his arms across his massive chest, which was made even larger by his coat.

  “Yeah, any company turning a profit does these days.” Twinkie agreed. “But Pete, this fight’s reflected in the letters to the editor or the state house. You know, someone writes in about how we’re bleeding dry the good people of Nevada.”