Hard Prejudice: A Hard-Boiled Crime Novel: (Dan Reno Private Detective Noir Mystery Series) (Dan Reno Novel Series Book 5), Page 2

  As I walked toward the tiered porch, I paused to take in the expansive view from the top of the hill. The entirety of Lake Tahoe dominated the valley, twenty-two miles north to south and twelve miles wide, the water a deep, sparkling blue. There were only a few wispy clouds in the sky, and I could see clear across the lake to Tahoe City, where streaks of snow still clung to the granite peaks above the town.

  “Ahem,” a voice said. I turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway.

  “I’m here to see Ryan Addison,” I said.

  The woman wrinkled her nose. She was slender and wore her dark hair up. “Yes, I know. I called you.”

  I climbed the porch steps. “You don’t look the part,” she said.

  “What part is that?” I asked.

  “I thought detectives wore suits.”

  “You ever try chasing a guy in a suit?”

  “Is that what you do? Chase guys?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She glanced away with a bored roll of the eyes and a curled lip, as if I’d said something stupid or mundane. Her expression looked practiced and was probably something she’d developed to let the noncelebrity class know their place. I guess she thought that was an important part of her job.

  “Follow me, please,” she said.

  I did so without comment. She wore a dress and heels and had no ass to speak of. We walked down a marble floor hallway to a tall, paneled door. She knocked twice and pushed the door open just enough to stick her head in.

  “The private investigator,” she said.

  “Well, let him in, goddammit.”

  She gave me a final, dubious glance, then opened the door wider.

  “Dan Reno?” the man said. He sat on the edge of an elaborate hardwood desk, his hands crossed in his lap, as if posing for a photographer. One leg was straight and the other was bent at the knee to reveal an ankle-high suede boot. His beige pants were of a thin material, bunched tight around his crotch.

  “It’s Reno, as in no problemo.”

  “No problemo, huh? All right, Dan! I like you already.” He hopped off the desk, grabbed a chair on wheels, and pushed it my direction. The room was lined with bookshelves and a large window offered a view of a forested canyon. He walked behind me to where Cassie was still standing and watching us. “Thanks, dear,” he said, and closed the door on her. Then he turned and offered his hand.

  “I’m Ryan Addison.” He was a shade under six feet and wore an untucked denim shirt that didn’t hide the barrel-like thickness of his torso. His blond hair was without a hint of gray and fell over his ears onto his tanned neck. Around his blue eyes, the skin was taut, but elsewhere it was grainy, as if his square features had been blasted with sand. I had not checked his date of birth, but I’m pretty good at guessing age. I pegged Addison at fifty-five.

  We shook, and his hand was rough and dry and almost as big as mine. He gave a good squeeze and held his eyes on mine for a long moment, then he squeezed harder. I didn’t quite know what to make of that, other than to guess he wanted to impress me with his physical strength, even if he was nearly twenty years my senior.

  I sat, and he went behind his desk and scooted forward in a leather executive’s chair.

  “My daughter’s name is Lindsey. I take it you’ve heard about the results of her trial,” he said.

  “I was at the courthouse yesterday. I heard the man accused of raping her was found not guilty.”

  His eyes flashed and locked onto mine. “It was a travesty of justice,” he said, his upper lip raised to show his teeth. “The evidence was overwhelming. I’d like to hire you to look into it.”

  “What’s there to look into? The jury declared the man innocent.”

  “I don’t give a shit what the jury said. My daughter was brutally raped.” He stood and peered down at me. “Listen to this,” he said. “There were three things that happened during the trial. First, an eyewitness changed her mind on stand and said she didn’t see a thing. Then a second witness disappeared and is still missing. And third, the DNA test results, which proved the son of a bitch was guilty, vanished. The DNA was in police custody, then it was gone. What do you think of that?”

  “It sounds like the witnesses were coerced, and someone was paid off to lose the DNA,” I said.

  Addison threw up his arms as if pleading to the heavens. “Thank you. Thank you!” He came out from behind the desk, his face dark with a crazed intensity. “I want you to find out who is protecting this rapist—and why. I want you to bust it wide open, and I want to see justice done.”

  I looked past him at the rows of books covering the wall behind the desk. They looked like collector’s sets, probably unread.

  “Mr. Addison, no matter what I uncover, it’s unlikely the defendant would be made to stand trial again. I’m not sure—

  I stopped in midsentence when the door flew open and a young woman burst into the room. She had a freckled nose, round eyes, and a mouth smudged with lipstick. Black stretch pants clung tightly to the curve of her hips, and under her pink T-shirt a sports bra flattened her breasts into a band of flesh around her chest.

  “I was raped!” she shrieked. “That fucking nigger did it and laughed at me!”

  “Lindsey, honey,” Addison said, rushing to the woman. “Please, you mustn’t—”

  “It was like getting fucked by a gorilla! I can’t wash the stink off of me. His thing was black as wet rubber and like something on a horse!”

  His face pooled with color, Addison tried pushing his daughter out the door, but she grabbed the frame. “Rudy!” Addison yelled.

  “He fucked my ass and tore up my insides, and I can’t even go to the goddamn bathroom anymore!” Her face was flushed red, and her voice had hit a hysterical pitch.

  “Rudy, get over here!” Addison dropped his shoulder and tried to push his daughter through the door, but she held fast.

  “Give me a gun, and I’ll kill that nigger! I swear I’ll shoot his dick off!”

  A young fellow, one I thought I’d seen at the courthouse, came from behind Lindsey, peeled her fingers from the doorframe, and pulled her out of the room. Before Addison shut the door, I caught a glimpse of his lady assistant, her smug demeanor gone, replaced with an astonished and mortified expression.

  Fumbling with the doorknob, Addison locked it, then walked with slumped shoulders back behind his desk. We listened to Lindsey’s screams and sobs become faint. Addison sat and placed his hands on his temples. After a long pause, he said, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I can come back later if you like.”

  When he looked up, his face was slack beneath his fallen eyes. “No, that’s okay,” he mumbled. “We have her in therapy. The shrink said she’s suffering from an unusual form of posttraumatic disorder. She has a compulsion to shout out in public, as if publicizing her experience will help her deal with it. It’s like a temporary case of Tourette’s syndrome.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s quite awkward, you understand.” He paused and then sighed. “I didn’t raise my daughter to be a racist. I’ve never heard language out of her like that. But I can understand her anger at that black man. Can you?”

  “Yes. But there’s plenty of assholes of every race, white included.”

  His faced jumped, and his lips tightened over his teeth. “You know that from experience, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I believe you. But somehow, it’s not much of a comfort.” His expression shifted again, and his eyes looked brittle as puddles of thin ice.

  “How long ago did the attack happen?” I asked.

  “Two months, now.” He straightened in his chair and blew out his breath. “Let’s talk specifics. I want to hire you, effective today.”

  “You’re asking me to look into something that could involve police corruption. I’m not sure what I can do for you. It’s a damn uncertain thing.”

  “I know it is. Uncover what’s going on and bring me justice, and I
’ll double your pay.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Bend the law, break it, I don’t care. I’ll pay you to do whatever it takes.”

  “Breaking the law is not part of what I do,” I said.

  Addison smiled. “You’re a lousy liar.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I’ve seen your résumé, Dan, and you have a hell of a track record.”

  “Says who?”

  “I’m connected in Washington.”

  “Your father the senator, huh?”

  “He’s very unhappy about what happened to his granddaughter. I’ll leave it at that. Anyway, I read your FBI file last night. Impressive stuff.”

  I shifted my weight in the chair and rubbed a spot on my jaw. I was aware the FBI had compiled a dossier on me. But I’d never seen it.

  “You’ve killed nine men.”

  I was silent for a moment before I said, “Self-defense is no crime.”

  “It beats the alternative, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “You’ll take the job?” he asked.

  I stared at Addison, who seemed to have fully recovered from the embarrassment of his daughter’s outburst. I stood and walked over to the single window in the room. My relationship with the South Lake Tahoe PD was something I managed carefully. Marcus Grier was the top cop in town, and he cut me a fair amount of slack. This dated back to three years ago, when I’d been responsible for the demise of a corrupt elected official who’d fired him. After Grier was rehired, he knew he owed me. But I didn’t take his latitude for granted. Our relationship had a certain balance to it. An attempt by me to uncover corruption in his department could easily screw up a good thing. It would be much more difficult to make a living in Tahoe if I put myself on Grier’s shit list.

  Still, though, it was hard to pass on the offer of a double rate. Especially given that my phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook with work offers. South Lake Tahoe is not a big city, and if I passed on this job, I might wait a month or two before my next shot at a payday.

  “Let me sweeten the pot for you,” Addison said. He pushed his chair back from the desk and sat with his legs crossed. “Duante Tucker is the name of the scumbag who raped Lindsey.” He pulled open a drawer and set a four-inch thick folder on the desk. “These are the trial transcripts, complete with all the prosecution’s interviews and so on.”

  I came back to Addison’s desk. “How’d you get this?”

  “It was brought to me by courier this morning. Tim Cook, the DA, was plenty pissed about giving it up, but pressure was applied.”

  “Your old man?”

  Addison nodded, then uncrossed his legs and fixed me with a deliberate stare. “Take this case. And if Duante Tucker ends up dead, I’ll pay you a hundred grand.” He reached into the same drawer from which he’d produced the trial folder and placed four bundles of fresh bills on the desk. “Cash,” he said.

  “You think I’m a hit man?”

  “Not at all, Dan. You’re a licensed private investigator and bounty hunter. But criminals have a tendency to wind up dead when you’re involved. Your record speaks for itself. It’s simple as that.”

  I shook my head. “We need to get something straight. I provide a legitimate service. I don’t operate outside the law. If you think I’m some kind of rogue agent, you’re wrong.”

  Addison raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I understand completely. I’m simply offering to hire you for the purposes we discussed. Legit and aboveboard.”

  “Then put your cash away.”

  “As you like.” He returned the packets of crisp notes inside his desk.

  “I accept your offer, then,” I said, watching him shut the drawer. “Excluding the part about killing anyone. I’ll bring a contract back this afternoon. I expect to be paid weekly for my time, including expenses.”

  “Excellent.” He rose and shook my hand. “By the way, this home belongs to Sam Aldon, who produced my last film. He’s been gracious enough to offer it to my family and me for the summer. I’ll be either here or at my home in Beverly Hills for the next two months. In early October I’m leaving for Europe to begin a new film.”

  “And?”

  “I hope to have this matter resolved well before then.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” We began walking toward the door, then he stopped. “Oh, there’s one more thing I forgot to mention. I’ve also hired another person to work on this. Because Duante Tucker lives in San Jose, I felt it would help to have an investigator based there involved. I understand he’s someone you know.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Cody Gibbons.”

  I tried to keep my face blank, but felt my brow crease.

  2

  I’d become friends with Cody Gibbons when we attended high school in San Jose. Shortly after we met, his father kicked him out of their house. At fifteen, Cody forged his way on his own, working odd jobs, sometimes living on the streets, sometimes renting a room. As teenagers we often worked together at different jobs through a temporary agency, usually hard, bust-ass labor. Though he hadn’t yet reached his eventual six feet five and three hundred pounds, Cody had tremendous physical strength. We once took a gig loading freezer cars with boxes of meat. The job was simple: lug and stack hundred-pound boxes all day long. I was a wrestler and a middle linebacker in high school, and I thought I was pretty tough. I tried to keep up with Cody. It was an ego thing, and I finally conceded it was pointless. Five o’clock in the afternoon, and he was still carrying a box under each arm, tossing them as if they were weightless.

  Cody never missed school, but sometimes wore the same clothes for days on end. Occasionally my mother would do his laundry and insist he stay for dinner. She asked me if he had enough money, and how he survived. I couldn’t give a good answer. At times he would show up with a roll of bills in his pocket. That he was involved in shady endeavors I had no doubt, but I never asked him about it.

  During our senior year, Cody was the star defensive end on our football team. The coaches tried to harness and direct his reckless aggression, with limited success. At half time of the final game of the year, our head coach chewed him out for committing a meaningless penalty. Cody picked the man up by his neck and groin and tossed him into a garbage bin. Despite the incident, Cody was offered an athletic scholarship by a university in Utah.

  After graduating with a degree in criminal justice and missing the NFL draft, Cody returned to San Jose to take a job with San Jose PD. Back then I was employed in my first job as an investigator, and in the process of drinking myself out of the job and a marriage. I’d convinced myself that closing bars was a natural and allowable response to the guilt I felt for killing a man. Looking back, I think that was mostly an excuse. More likely, I was irresponsible and self-destructive and just plain liked to drink. Regardless, Cody stuck with me during those wild, bleak times, and despite his own bibulous tendencies, he made it clear he’d not let me drown in my sorrows, be they legitimate or otherwise.

  For seven years Cody lasted as a San Jose cop—seven years of insubordination and irreverence and accusations of excessive force. But in the end, what got him fired was his unwillingness to take dirty money. That’s where he drew his ethical line, and that was unacceptable to his fellow cops and the precinct captain. To punctuate the end of his career, Cody had an affair with the captain’s wife, who hated her husband so much she begged Cody to set up a camera and film them getting it on, and then distribute CDs around the squad room.

  Cody’s subsequent career as a private investigator was once described by a local judge as “letting a rabid dog off the leash.” Cody took cases most investigators shied away from, and he mined the niche into a good living. His name became well known within criminal circles. On two occasions the mafia tried to kill him, and the ensuing mayhem convinced local mobsters to focus their energies elsewhere. When gangbangers recognized him on the streets, they tended to disperse. Even Mexican d
rug cartel members operating in California viewed him with trepidation.

  The effect of Cody’s antics on San Jose’s law enforcement community was polarizing. Some officials wanted him jailed. Others saw him as a convenient ally, a shortcut around a cumbersome and often ineffective court system. Whether friend or enemy, Cody knew exactly where he stood. That was his strength; he had an uncanny knack for knowing what he could get away with.

  As for my dealings with Cody, he had saved my life at least twice. He did his best work with a double-barreled shotgun or a large-bore revolver, but he could be more creative when the situation called for it. Last winter he blew up the home of a white supremacist who had kidnapped and nearly killed me. The man was the leader of a skinhead biker gang, and he and five of his cohorts were in the house when the C-4 went off. Their bodies had to be identified by dental records.

  • • •

  I spent the rest of the morning at home, reading through the trial papers. There was too much information to process in a single sitting. I took a break for lunch and then lifted weights in my garage, sets of upright rows, bench presses, and curls with a hundred-pound bar. Just as I finished the final reps, my phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to see the name on the screen.

  “Hello, Cody.”

  “Dirty Double-Crossin’ Dan,”’ he said. The nickname was based on his claim that I once left a bar with a woman he was hitting on, sneaking out while he was in the men’s room. Whether or not that actually happened, I don’t recall. The supposed event was more than ten years ago, during a long night of drinking.

  “What’s going on, man?” I said.

  “Women trouble, that’s what.”

  “Again? Not you.”

  “I’m serious, I think I need to file a restraining order. I’m in bed last night, early, like the good citizen I am. About three in the morning I wake up, and someone’s in my bedroom. There is no creepier feeling, let me tell you. The alarm bells start going off in my head, and I grab my piece from where I’ve been keeping it under the pillow. Then she flips the light on. It’s this nutty broad I went out with a couple times.”