pissed anymore. I just want to know who did it.”
“Dude, I can’t say for sure, but it was probably me,” he blurted. “I mean, yeah, I was with Osterlund in his truck, we were drunk, and we did a couple fat rips right after we scored, and we were screwin’ off on the drive back. I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t know it was you.”
“It’s cool, Whitey. But I was pissed at the time, you know?”
“I’m sorry, dude.”
“Osterlund’s a good buddy of yours?”
“Yeah, he’s all right. He just goes a little psycho at times.”
“When he’s too messed up?”
“Shit, sometimes even when he’s straight. It’s like he’s got demons in his head or something.”
I turned into the Lazy 8 and parked in front of their room. Brad was snoring. I pulled him out of the backseat and lifted him over my shoulder. Whitey opened the door, and I dropped Brad on one of the beds.
“I think I’ll take a bong hit and pass out too,” Whitey said.
“When you see Osterlund, tell him he should check to see if his truck was towed by the police.”
“Towed?”
“Happens all the time around here.”
I went to my car, thinking I’d head back over to Caesar’s and offer my condolences to the families, but I didn’t know the Bascoms, and the McGees would be surrounded by relatives and close friends. Maybe I’d just send a card to Julia’s family, although I wasn’t sure what kind of card would be appropriate.
I looked down at my fancy shirt and slacks, and it occurred to me my plans for dinner and the rest of the evening were shot. It was a few minutes past five when I drove from the Lazy 8 back toward the Lakeside. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the prospect of a slow night started sounding pretty good. There was an off-the-beaten-path bar and grill a little ways up 50 in Nevada that served good, old-fashioned greasy chow, burgers, tacos, pizza—the kind of food that made you feel warm and content when it hit your stomach. I could sit at the bar, drink a couple of margaritas on the rocks, play some video poker and mellow out, maybe crash around ten or so. But first I wanted to change clothes, so I pulled into my hotel.
I hung up my jacket and slacks and put on my Levi’s and my old, comfortable, rust-colored cowboy boots. I was just walking out the door when my cell rang.
“Is this Dan Reno?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“This is Edward Cutlip, personal assistant to John Bascom, president of Bascom Lumber. I’m calling because Mr. Bascom wants to speak to you regarding investigating his son’s death. He’d like to see you immediately. Can you come to our suite at Caesar’s right now?”
“Actually, I was just heading out to get a bite.”
“Mr. Bascom views this situation with tremendous gravity, as you might imagine. He also pays very well, but he insists on timeliness. I think you’ll find it worthwhile to delay your dinner plans.”
I looked down and watched the toe of my boot tap the floor a few times. “Okay, I’ll come over. What room number?”
“Suite four hundred. It’s five-seventeen. Can you make it by five-thirty?”
“No problem.”
“Good. I’ll tell Mr. Bascom. Please don’t be late.”
6
T he sun was setting over the snow-capped ridges above the west shores of Lake Tahoe. A strong wind had kicked up, dropping the temperature below freezing. The lake was twinkling with the sun’s last reflections, and the trees were fading to black. I had to park at the outer edge of Caesar’s crowded lot, and I zipped my ski jacket while I made the hike to the lobby.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor. A slightly built, brown-haired man in a dark business suit stood outside suite 400.
“Dan Reno?”
“
Reno
,” I said. “As in Reynolds.”
“I’m Edward Cutlip,” he said in a hushed tone. “This way, please.” I followed him into the suite, a large room lined with couches and padded chairs. On a small conference table in the center was a phone, some
“Dude, I can’t say for sure, but it was probably me,” he blurted. “I mean, yeah, I was with Osterlund in his truck, we were drunk, and we did a couple fat rips right after we scored, and we were screwin’ off on the drive back. I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t know it was you.”
“It’s cool, Whitey. But I was pissed at the time, you know?”
“I’m sorry, dude.”
“Osterlund’s a good buddy of yours?”
“Yeah, he’s all right. He just goes a little psycho at times.”
“When he’s too messed up?”
“Shit, sometimes even when he’s straight. It’s like he’s got demons in his head or something.”
I turned into the Lazy 8 and parked in front of their room. Brad was snoring. I pulled him out of the backseat and lifted him over my shoulder. Whitey opened the door, and I dropped Brad on one of the beds.
“I think I’ll take a bong hit and pass out too,” Whitey said.
“When you see Osterlund, tell him he should check to see if his truck was towed by the police.”
“Towed?”
“Happens all the time around here.”
I went to my car, thinking I’d head back over to Caesar’s and offer my condolences to the families, but I didn’t know the Bascoms, and the McGees would be surrounded by relatives and close friends. Maybe I’d just send a card to Julia’s family, although I wasn’t sure what kind of card would be appropriate.
I looked down at my fancy shirt and slacks, and it occurred to me my plans for dinner and the rest of the evening were shot. It was a few minutes past five when I drove from the Lazy 8 back toward the Lakeside. I hadn’t slept much the night before, and the prospect of a slow night started sounding pretty good. There was an off-the-beaten-path bar and grill a little ways up 50 in Nevada that served good, old-fashioned greasy chow, burgers, tacos, pizza—the kind of food that made you feel warm and content when it hit your stomach. I could sit at the bar, drink a couple of margaritas on the rocks, play some video poker and mellow out, maybe crash around ten or so. But first I wanted to change clothes, so I pulled into my hotel.
I hung up my jacket and slacks and put on my Levi’s and my old, comfortable, rust-colored cowboy boots. I was just walking out the door when my cell rang.
“Is this Dan Reno?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“This is Edward Cutlip, personal assistant to John Bascom, president of Bascom Lumber. I’m calling because Mr. Bascom wants to speak to you regarding investigating his son’s death. He’d like to see you immediately. Can you come to our suite at Caesar’s right now?”
“Actually, I was just heading out to get a bite.”
“Mr. Bascom views this situation with tremendous gravity, as you might imagine. He also pays very well, but he insists on timeliness. I think you’ll find it worthwhile to delay your dinner plans.”
I looked down and watched the toe of my boot tap the floor a few times. “Okay, I’ll come over. What room number?”
“Suite four hundred. It’s five-seventeen. Can you make it by five-thirty?”
“No problem.”
“Good. I’ll tell Mr. Bascom. Please don’t be late.”
6
T he sun was setting over the snow-capped ridges above the west shores of Lake Tahoe. A strong wind had kicked up, dropping the temperature below freezing. The lake was twinkling with the sun’s last reflections, and the trees were fading to black. I had to park at the outer edge of Caesar’s crowded lot, and I zipped my ski jacket while I made the hike to the lobby.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor. A slightly built, brown-haired man in a dark business suit stood outside suite 400.
“Dan Reno?”
“
Reno
,” I said. “As in Reynolds.”
“I’m Edward Cutlip,” he said in a hushed tone. “This way, please.” I followed him into the suite, a large room lined with couches and padded chairs. On a small conference table in the center was a phone, some
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