each other for a long moment.
“Answer me this, Reno,” he said. “In most cases that get solved, an arrest is made in the first seventy-two hours. Am I right?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Let me clarify a few things for you,” he continued. “I’ll make this very simple. I will pay you to drop everything and focus entirely on finding who killed my son. Take a leave of absence or quit your job at…” he picked up my card from his desk. “Wenger Associates. Understand, I don’t want a large, accredited detective agency involved. This is under the table. I do not want it publicized. The bottom line is I want you to identify and bring me the person responsible for…” He paused, and the room became quiet, then his shoulders hunched and he looked deflated and much older. “For the murder of my son.”
I looked away from Bascom, unable to resist a weird but profound sense that in some dark corner of my psyche, I shared his loss. I shook my head, trying to ignore the random emotion, and glanced over at Cutlip, who was eyeing the whiskey. I stood, poured myself a jolt in a plastic cup, then poured one for Cutlip, but he wouldn’t take it from my hand so I set it in front of him. Bascom held out his cup, and I measured him a shot. The sky was dark outside, and the casino lights reflected into the room.
“You’re asking me to leave my job and undertake a secret investigation without the knowledge of any police agency,” I said.
“I didn’t say ‘secret.’ I want low profile.” Bascom leaned back in his chair. “If the police learn of your involvement, so be it. Your job will be to do what they can’t, or won’t do, if that’s what it takes.”
I tasted the whiskey. A slew of issues and pros and cons jumbled around in my head, and finally I went to the bottom line. My old man had told me years ago to never lead with your chin in a negotiation; get the other party to the name the price first.
“How much are you willing to pay?” I said. My sympathy for John Bascom did not extend to his bank account.
“Name your price,” he shot back. So much for my strategy. I decided to start wildly high—from what I’d heard, he could afford it.
“One hundred thousand up front.”
He didn’t blink. “I’ll give you fifty thousand up front and the remaining fifty K for delivering the killer.”
“Delivering a person constitutes kidnapping, and my bounty hunting license is expired,” I said.
“Get it renewed.”
“It’s not an overnight process.”
“You’re not the right man for the job then. I’ll find someone else.”
I looked at Bascom warily. “You’re asking me to stretch the law,” I said. “But for a hundred K, I’ll deliver your man.”
“Dead or alive,” Bascom said flatly.
“I’m a private investigator, not a hit man. I’ll deliver the killer. You want him dead, that’s your business.”
“Yes. It is,” he said slowly. Then his eyes snapped back on mine, once again addressing me as a subordinate. “I’ll want daily reports,” he said. There was a light knock on the door, and Nora Bascom stuck her head in. “Edward will take care of the paperwork and details,” Bascom said. “I need you to call him with a progress report daily.” He stood without further comment, went to his wife, and left me with Cutlip.
“Give me a minute,” Cutlip said as he typed on a notebook computer. I went over to the window and gazed out at the neon lights of Pistol Pete’s casino. A thirty-foot-tall cowboy was in a fast-draw stance, the sign underneath him boasting, “Loosest slots in Nevada.” The sidewalks were crowded with tourists pouring in and out of the casinos, and the road was a solid line of cars. For a moment I felt strangely removed, like I was down on the street, not here in a room watching the masses from above. It was an odd feeling—fifty grand. More money than I made working for Wenger the year before. I had under five hundred dollars in my checking account at the
“Answer me this, Reno,” he said. “In most cases that get solved, an arrest is made in the first seventy-two hours. Am I right?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Let me clarify a few things for you,” he continued. “I’ll make this very simple. I will pay you to drop everything and focus entirely on finding who killed my son. Take a leave of absence or quit your job at…” he picked up my card from his desk. “Wenger Associates. Understand, I don’t want a large, accredited detective agency involved. This is under the table. I do not want it publicized. The bottom line is I want you to identify and bring me the person responsible for…” He paused, and the room became quiet, then his shoulders hunched and he looked deflated and much older. “For the murder of my son.”
I looked away from Bascom, unable to resist a weird but profound sense that in some dark corner of my psyche, I shared his loss. I shook my head, trying to ignore the random emotion, and glanced over at Cutlip, who was eyeing the whiskey. I stood, poured myself a jolt in a plastic cup, then poured one for Cutlip, but he wouldn’t take it from my hand so I set it in front of him. Bascom held out his cup, and I measured him a shot. The sky was dark outside, and the casino lights reflected into the room.
“You’re asking me to leave my job and undertake a secret investigation without the knowledge of any police agency,” I said.
“I didn’t say ‘secret.’ I want low profile.” Bascom leaned back in his chair. “If the police learn of your involvement, so be it. Your job will be to do what they can’t, or won’t do, if that’s what it takes.”
I tasted the whiskey. A slew of issues and pros and cons jumbled around in my head, and finally I went to the bottom line. My old man had told me years ago to never lead with your chin in a negotiation; get the other party to the name the price first.
“How much are you willing to pay?” I said. My sympathy for John Bascom did not extend to his bank account.
“Name your price,” he shot back. So much for my strategy. I decided to start wildly high—from what I’d heard, he could afford it.
“One hundred thousand up front.”
He didn’t blink. “I’ll give you fifty thousand up front and the remaining fifty K for delivering the killer.”
“Delivering a person constitutes kidnapping, and my bounty hunting license is expired,” I said.
“Get it renewed.”
“It’s not an overnight process.”
“You’re not the right man for the job then. I’ll find someone else.”
I looked at Bascom warily. “You’re asking me to stretch the law,” I said. “But for a hundred K, I’ll deliver your man.”
“Dead or alive,” Bascom said flatly.
“I’m a private investigator, not a hit man. I’ll deliver the killer. You want him dead, that’s your business.”
“Yes. It is,” he said slowly. Then his eyes snapped back on mine, once again addressing me as a subordinate. “I’ll want daily reports,” he said. There was a light knock on the door, and Nora Bascom stuck her head in. “Edward will take care of the paperwork and details,” Bascom said. “I need you to call him with a progress report daily.” He stood without further comment, went to his wife, and left me with Cutlip.
“Give me a minute,” Cutlip said as he typed on a notebook computer. I went over to the window and gazed out at the neon lights of Pistol Pete’s casino. A thirty-foot-tall cowboy was in a fast-draw stance, the sign underneath him boasting, “Loosest slots in Nevada.” The sidewalks were crowded with tourists pouring in and out of the casinos, and the road was a solid line of cars. For a moment I felt strangely removed, like I was down on the street, not here in a room watching the masses from above. It was an odd feeling—fifty grand. More money than I made working for Wenger the year before. I had under five hundred dollars in my checking account at the
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